


Flickers and Whispers

by Ladylauralue



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:39:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladylauralue/pseuds/Ladylauralue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cursed Storybrooke. Arabella French runs the Storybrooke Library. When Mr Gold shows up needing help finding a book about bookbinding he goes to her. After the curse breaks he struggles to find out who she is to Regina. He has no clues, and no idea what she looks like.</p><p>He's blind, and she's deaf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If the slow, unchanging town of Storybrooke ever had a new comer, they may have marveled at the strange treatment the blind pawnbroker received. While it was one thing to step politely to the side or make oneself known, people scurried, scrambled or flat out ran to avoid having to encounter the slight man. Without his reputation to bolster his appearance Mr. Gold was almost unassuming. When one knew his quiet temper, his sternness became heartlessness; his confidence, intimidation; his mannerisms and impeccable clothing a reminder of his status and more importantly the lack of everyone else’s. He had money, power and didn’t need influence when he held half the town in his strong, capable hands. When he was out collecting his debts he was occasionally accompanied by his assistant, a towering man known only as Mr. Dove. Very often, however, he walked the streets alone, his fluid, even gait deceptive. These were the times that people feared more. Mr. Dove could be seen from the other end of town, while Mr. Gold could sneak up startlingly well for a man who had to tap a long white cane to get around. He used this to his advantage, as well as his uncanny knack of always knowing who was around him.

He lived in an old Victorian house tucked away from the main streets of Storybrooke, and he liked the reprieve from the sounds and smells of the main street’s hustle and bustle. Other than his pawnshop, and his home, the only other quiet refuge in town was the Library, which he avoided due to lack of interest (in the meager collection) and business. The library received funds from the council, and the librarian kept a small loft apartment above it. When he thought about it, which was rarely, he couldn’t recall having ever come across her on the street, but he must have at some point, Storybrooke was hardly a bustling metropolitan city. He couldn’t remember the librarian before her, and presumed that it had been a result of the same disinterest as now. He never dwelt on the matter long, having no way to manipulate a hold on the library or its keeper, and therefore having no use for either.

^^^^^^

The Storybrooke librarian kept her domain tidy and well organized. She saw to cleaning and repairs herself, as she was able. Anyone looking through the windows before or after hours could find Arabella French at work. In the mornings, bedecked in worn jeans and a loose t-shirt when she dusted, she saw to sweeping the tile floors and vacuuming the carpeted children’s area. In the evenings, more demurely outfitted in a modest skirt and blouse she could be seen re-shelving the books. Whenever she was seen, however, headphones adorned her neck, speakers twisted to blast music against her collarbone. Sometimes she shuffled her feet in the semblance of a dance move, bouncing or swaying to a beat she could only feel she lost herself happily to her work. She could stay wrapped up for the longer part of an hour before retiring for the evening, or stepping out with a few friends. Her life of quiet solitude was only half choice. She liked to be alone most of the time, left to her books and her duties. The silence in which she lived was one she’d always known and accepted.

Her fondest memories from her childhood were of her mother’s patience in teaching her sign language. Shortly after signs came letters, words, and the written worlds that books provided. Her father had no great skill understanding the subtleties of sign, but while her mother had been alive, the three of them had cobbled together a language of compromise, patience, and understanding. When her mother died it had been hard for Maurice to remember that communication went two ways, and he forgot patience. He was often short with her for not grasping his meanings, and would grow frustrated when he couldn’t understand her. It was difficult, but she’d worked at it, until she was able to take the job as town librarian. The time and space apart was good for them, she’d decided. Although it was lonely living on her own, it was her choice, and she enjoyed it all the more for that. She had her work, her friends and her books to fill her time; if there was anything else she could have in her life, she didn’t feel the lack of it.

^^^^^^

Patience with deals, and collecting rent was one of Mr. Gold’s virtues, if any one were to call it such. With incompetence he was far less so, and as a harsh task master, he and found, over the years that he could rely best on one individual, if that individual was loyal enough. Mr. Dove was such an individual, seeing to the general order of the pawnshop and the closets and cabinets of Mr. Gold’s house. He was also stalwart enough to handle the occasional bad temper and shouting from his employer without taking offense or cowering under the verbal onslaught. Mr. Gold had a quick mind and a memory for detail. He knew every inch of his store, could recall what artifacts and objects were in his possession, but today he was at a loss for something he did not have.

“Dove,” he yelled with a Scottish brogue made harsh with frustration and waited impatiently for the heavy footsteps that heralded the arrival of his assistant. “Miss Blanchard has inquired after the condition of a book, in the interest of purchasing it.”

“Yes, sir?” ventured a slightly confused Mr. Dove.

Mr. Gold sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, a habit he tried to avoid, since he couldn’t see to himself to fix it, should it become unruly or messy. The book in question wasn’t so very old, but it hadn’t been kept in the best repair. Dust had caked on it, silverfish had destroyed the glue binding it and some of the strings threading the pages together had snapped. He was sure he could fix it, if he had a little help and knew where to begin. His own common sense could figure out the basics but he wanted to avoid lack of attention to detail. “I plan on repairing it, but I have no instructions, and unsure of how to use what tools I do possess.”

“Yes, sir.” Understanding that his employer wished to speak his thoughts aloud, Mr. Dove resorted to simply making it known that he had heard Mr. Gold and was awaiting any assignments he deemed necessary for the task.

Turning away from the bookshelves, Mr. Gold took up his cane and walked along the space left between shelves and the glass counters until he reached his register and his small Braille typewriter. It was an old, but still serviceable machine, its seven keys smooth from years of use and its hinges and levers well oiled. He leaned his cane against the glass cabinet, going over the inventory of his shop and his own home, the thoughts underneath nagging insistently that he did not have what he sought. With nimble fingers he flipped through the planner he kept by the typewriter, feeling for the current day’s agenda. “I don’t have any appointments after three, but…” he trailed off as he finished reading “Ah, I forgot. Today is your afternoon off, Dove.”

“It is, sir.” The large man had only an idea what his employer was going to say, but Mr. Gold had never appreciated being interrupted, or having his thoughts finished for him. He remained quiet, waiting for instructions or information, whichever he was to be told.

“I’ll have to close up the shop a little early today,” the pawnbroker muttered, half to himself and half to Mr. Dove. “Have you ever been to the library Mr. Dove?”

“On occasion, sir,” though so rare, he could hardly recall when or why he’d gone, but vaguely remembered feeling a bit out of place, what with being able to see the tops of the shelves and worried about children underfoot.

Closing the planner with the soft clap of paper, Mr. Gold mentally weighed his options. He wanted to get started on the repairs, liking having something to occupy his time, but he felt unable to commit to going himself. Shaking off the absurd notion he asked his assistant “Does the library have an acceptable collection?”

“It does, sir,” replied Mr. Dove, feeling compelled to add “It seems to be a point of personal pride with the librarian.”

Mr. Gold nodded and grabbed his cane before heading to the back to go about his usual business, planning to get as much done before having to visit the library. Mr. Dove followed, and they set to work looking over contracts, the few other odds and ends that needed repair, appraisal or categorization. They had worked their way through things that needed more immediate attention, as well as the things Mr. Gold needed a trained pair of eyes for, when Mr. Dove took his leave for his afternoon off. He left Mr. Gold with a reminder of the library’s closing hours and a simple farewell.

Alone in his shop, Mr. Gold walked around, puttering, mostly. Straightening odds and ends, shuffling through papers he passed the time until he realized his productivity was competing with his impatient watch checking. Suppressing a growl he snapped his watch closed, grabbed his cane gruffly and stalked towards the door. He slid his sunglasses on and pulled his key out of his coat pocket and, opening the door, stepped out into the frosty Maine afternoon. He carefully locked the door, listening for the click of the bolt over the light traffic behind him. He took a moment to orient himself and stepped off towards the library. Down the block and across the street, he thought to himself. This was an easy trip, just stopping by to see if a run-down library had an obscure book. No reason to feel out of sorts. He’d closed the shop a little early, something he’d never done, and was also going to the library; another first. He stood at the corner listening for a lull in traffic and organizing his thoughts.

When he heard it he stepped forward, quickly walking to where he knew the library door to be, but once he reached the opposite corner he slowed his pace. He didn’t know exactly where the doors were, and he hated feeling around for the handle, but it sounded quiet enough that he didn’t think there were too many people about to see his uncertainty. He walked forward until his cane hit something, and he reached his hand out, feeling for the obstacle. His fingers reached a smooth wooden door, and he managed to find the door handles with minimal fumbling. Masking his face to hide a grimace he pulled open the door and stepped inside, appreciating the warmth that enveloped him as he took a few slow paces forward, completely out of his element. He was regretting his decision to never frequent the library.

He could hear some muffled footsteps, rustling pages and then, after a long moment he heard a soft voice ask “Hello Mr. Gold, how can I help you?” A low, female voice that didn’t articulate the “h”s, was sharp with the “i”s and had a somewhat nasal hum. His mind struggled with understanding the unfamiliar until it clicked. The librarian was deaf.

^^^^^^

A cool breeze alerted Arabella to the new arrival, and she turned to greet them but was shocked by the daunting sight of the pawnbroker. She’d never crossed paths with him; she’d never had a need, but she did know him through his association with her sort-of-friend Ruby and her grandmother. He owned their Bed and Breakfast, and sometimes Ruby gave the impression that he lorded it over them. She racked her brain, trying to figure out why he would come here. Her heart beat a little harder; worried that something had come up with her management of the library. She calmed herself, breathing deeply a few times before she rallied enough courage to greet the pawnbroker. “Hello Mr. Gold, how can I help you?”

He paused and she hoped he’d heard her. She had grown accustomed to people who knew to listen carefully to her and she tried to remember if she’d projected and enunciated. She felt her cheeks heat with a furious blush and she said a quick prayer of gratitude that he was blind. He seemed to sigh and she saw him start to speak, and she was surprised by how well she was able to make out his words. He was looking for a book with instructions on book binding. Odd, she thought to herself, but she nodded before realizing he couldn’t see. She hastily asked “Bookbinding for repairs, or for something more artistic? We have a few different books.”

Throwing out an arm with an extravagant sweep, she took that to mean he wanted her to lead the way. She turned and started walking away, but as she led him to the shelves in the back, she kept looking over her shoulder, wanting to make sure he was following. He seemed to keep up pretty well, and the butterflies rampaging in her stomach settled down to a hard flutter. She called behind her to alert him of her changing directions. “This way Mr. Gold,” she felt foolish saying it, but she didn’t want to give him any reason to dislike her, or the way she ran her library. “What kind of bookbinding do you need to research?” she asked, finally turning to face him fully.

He waited a moment before speaking. Normally Arabella struggled to understand context, but she understood that he was repairing a book at his shop and needed to know how the pages were sewn, as well as touching up the interior cover binding. She noticed that while he talked with his hands, it was more to enunciate a point than to try to describe an idea. Mr. Gold’s hands would flit about, a flick of his fingers to emphasis something and then, once he was finished speaking, they’d rest one on top of the other, on the handle of his cane. She had to make an effort not to get distracted by them, something that hadn’t happened since she was in elementary school. She turned to face the shelf, looking at the books for the ones she was seeking. She pulled out two books and almost held them out to him, stopping herself just in time. “I have two here that should have what you’re looking for,” she said. “Would you like to take both of them?”

He shook his head, one hand waving away the notion while the other gripped his cane, and told her he would take both. Brushing past him with the books cradled to her chest, she asked the pawnbroker to follow her, and she led the way again, this time to the main desk, which also functioned as the check out desk. Instead of sitting behind the desk, she wrote a quick note of the books and who was borrowing them to catalogue later. The note must have taken longer than she thought, because when she looked up to hand the books to Mr. Gold, he was looking at her as though he may have asked her a question. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

^^^^^^

The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t said anything, he’d been too distracted by trying to find out what she smelled like. When she’d brushed against him between the shelves he’d caught a mixture of scents that disappeared as she walked away. Through the smell of books he caught something a little spicy that may have been cinnamon, something clean he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and something floral. Now that she’d stopped moving he could stand closer to her than was probably necessary as she stood there writing something. He could faintly hear the scratch of pen on paper. He was rather sure he’d never passed her in the street, nothing about her smelled or sounded familiar. The pen stopped moving and he heard her shift, pause and then she spoke. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

That hum that ran through all her words was strangely soothing. There wasn’t a lot of inflection in her tone, but there was enough to understand the meaning. He shook his head, saying “No, no, just waiting for you to finish. May I take my books now?” he held one arm out to her, waiting for her to hand him his books. The books met his fingertips with more force than he thought was called for but instead of commenting on it, he let it slide.

“Do you need me to walk you to the door?” she asked, and Mr. Gold thought he heard hesitancy, but he couldn’t be sure. Again he regretted his decision to avoid the library. It had been a very intentional decision, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he’d made it. He nodded at her question, cursing his lack of knowledge of the library’s lay out. She took his elbow, so gently he might not have noticed it if she hadn’t applied subtle pressure. Letting her guide him, he was again distracted by trying to figure out what she smelled like. The slight jolt of his cane hitting the door pulled him out of his reverie. It was opened and a chill wind welcomed him to the outside. He gauged his bearings and, nodding a farewell to the librarian, departed down the street. It wasn’t until he was nearly back to his pawnshop that he realized he’d never asked for her name, nor given her his.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When closing time came around Arabella found herself with little to do. She’d been distracting herself ever since her unsettling visit from Mr. Gold. All the books were shelved, the card catalogue straightened and her desk neatly organized. It was only just after six, and she had the entire evening ahead of her, and so far it promised to be interrupted with thinking of the pawnbroker. Food and company were good diversions; she could cook up some dinner before going out to see if any one she knew was at the store. Her plans decided she went around the library, shutting off the lights and straightening chairs and desks. She ended at the door before the stairs leading to her apartment, and she hastily ascended them, racing the dark to the beat of her heart. The shadowy, seldom used rooms upstairs were daunting to her uneasy restlessness as she passed them, quickly walking down the hall to her door. The half shadows of the upstairs were banished as she unlocked her door and smacked the light switch, flooding her front room and the hall behind her with a cheerful, hazy glow. Her shoes were quickly removed, followed by her nylons. It wasn’t lady-like at all and if she was going out she’d have to put them on again, but in the quiet of her own apartment she could enjoy a little freedom. Making a quick run to check the contents of her bathroom, and double checking the pantry, Arabella grabbed her notepad to jot down a list while she ate. All things considered, eggs were a suitable dinner if she paired them with the slowly drying out carrots in her crisper, and a glass of orange juice.

Eating slowly while she wrote out a short shopping list, Arabella was able to distract herself until both were finished. She cleaned her plate and glass in the small sink and left them to dry. With extra care she pulled on her nylons, not wanting to risk ruining them, and then slipped her shoes back on. Donning her jacket, scarf and tam she grabbed her purse and walked hurriedly down the dark hall back to the stairs leading to the library. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the dark, but she relied so much on her sight that even being without it for a little bit was disturbing. Briefly she thought of Mr. Gold, who spent all his time in the dark, and a small part of her pitied him. The pity was brushed aside by common sense; after all, Mr. Gold could hear just fine and most likely didn’t want or need any one’s pity, let alone hers. Thoughts of pity and Mr. Gold left her mind when she made her hurried dash down the hall and stairs to the library floor. The age of fearing the dark was long behind her but it wasn’t fear, so much an uncomfortable wariness, and she was glad when she made it to the door of the library.

With practiced movements she locked the library for the evening and timidly made her way down the street towards the grocer, her head bowed to limit eye contact and keep the wind’s bite from stinging too hard. Her feet lead her with practiced surety down the sidewalk. Smiling to herself, she considered the benefits of living in such a small town. A short, and well worn list, to be sure, but she had no plans to leave. Her place was here, running the library and occasionally helping her father at the shop if her library duties permitted it. It wasn’t an exciting life, but it was good one, a life she was content with.

Shaking herself from her reverie, she realized she was passing the diner and was struck by a timid desire to go in and grab a bite to eat with someone. No one she talked to ever went there, as far as she was aware, so there was little reason to go herself. She sighed and walked on, justifying to herself why she didn’t go; she didn’t have the extra money, she didn’t know any one, her curfew was coming up and she didn’t want to lose track of time. Her father was always upset when he found out she’d been late getting home. It was sweet how he worried about her, but she always felt a little guilty when she was the cause.

The harsh florescent lights of the grocer pulled her from her thoughts and she tucked a basket into the crook of her arm as she walked through the entrance. The canned food aisle was the first to be perused as she hunted for any bargain foods. She didn’t much care for canned food, preparing from scratch was so much more fun, but she didn’t have the room for all the ingredients she needed. Deciding on Chicken ‘n’ Noodles, Cheddar Broccoli Soup and Clam Chowder she let them tumble around her basket as she crossed it off her list. She didn’t notice the man beside her until she turned to finish walking down the aisle and hit him square in the chest instead. Blushing furiously she backed up and saw the familiar friendly face of Sydney Glass, her friend who worked at the newspaper. “Sydney!” she gasped “How have you been?”

The dark, impeccably dressed reporter straightened his fedora and lapels before answering her with a practiced debonair smile. He nodded, and said he was fine, just picking up some essentials for his kitchen, and asked her how she was. “The same, thank you. How is research for your article going?” Sydney had been allowed free reign to study old newspapers and journals in the upstairs library, and thoroughly enjoyed ferreting out scandalous information. The last lead he’d found had been of a secret love affair between a former Mother Superior and the mine foreman. He’d made it a two part piece, dragging out the suspense until the next issue. Arabella hoarded some of his articles, the only excitement she had directly in her life was from the times he came to her for help investigate library documents.

Sydney started to respond, Arabella could have sworn he was saying something along the lines of exciting when something caught his attention. She turned to follow his gaze, catching the back of Mayor Mills as she walked away. Her only goodbye from Sydney was a hand patting her shoulder before he followed after the mayor. Smiling to herself, Arabella walked on, hoping that Sydney could find some luck with his affections towards Madame Mayor. Not that she wanted to meddle in anyone’s affairs. It wasn’t her place, and she was sure it could only come to trouble. Shifting the basket from one arm to the other Arabella headed for the cereal aisle where she picked up the off brand, bagged versions of the healthiest cereal the store offered. Milk, eggs and produce were last because she liked to make sure they stayed cold.

The checkout lines were short, thankfully, and she smiled politely to the cashier as she counted out her change. She hated the feeling of slowing down the line, she felt like everyone was staring at her. Asking for paper bags, and trying to collect them quickly, she forgot about the cans until the weight jerked on her arm socket. Luckily the handles didn’t tear too badly, but she knew she had to hurry or the tear in the bottom would worsen. Just before the exit she saw Mayor Mills again and tried to call her to get her attention. It was her son, Henry who got his mother’s attention, tugging on the sleeve of her pristine jacket. Greeting Arabella with her usual smile, Mayor Mills said hello and asked how Arabella was doing.

“I’m fine, Madame Mayor. I just wanted to ask you… Mr. Gold doesn’t own the library, does he? I thought it was city property.” She was sure she imagined the anger flitting across Mayor Mills’ face. What reason could she have to be angry?

Shaking her head, Mayor Mills said no and asked why on earth she would be asking such a question. “It’s nothing, just a thought I had when he came in today-” The Mayor suddenly grabbing her arm cut off the rest of her sentence and effectively made her forget what she was going to say. Sometimes when the Mayor was angry she spoke with her teeth clenched, and Arabella had a hard time understanding. She thought the mayor was asking what he was doing, and she shook her head, collecting her thoughts before answering “I don’t know, he was just getting a book for some repairs” she wanted to wrench her arm away from the Mayor’s grasp, but she fought the instinct.

Crimson lips tightened into a semblance of a smile and Mayor Mills let go of her hand. She told her there was nothing to worry about, our library was safe. Arabella was pretty sure she saw her sneer, but she couldn’t think why. They both made their goodbyes, Mayor Mills abruptly turning and beckoning  a waving Henry to follow her, and Arabella following quietly behind. She just wanted to get home and put the confusing afternoon behind her. This time, when she kept her head down, it was to avoid any more associations with passersby. The library didn’t feel as welcoming as it usually did when she made her way across the floor to the stairway door. She felt the bag start to tear as she walked up the flight of stairs and she tried to make her steps softer, but it turned out to be a fruitless endeavor. Cans tumbled from a ripped paper bag only a few paces from her apartment door, and after putting her other groceries away she trudged back out to the hall to retrieve them, taking three trips with her arms full.

It was ten minutes before her curfew when she switched her nightlight on, tucked herself into her small twin bed and closed her eyes to wait for sleep.

^^^^^^

Leftovers were, oddly enough, Mr. Gold’s preferred meals. He could manage them himself without waiting on a delivery boy or Mr. Dove. Hooking his cane on the island counter, he began rummaging through his refrigerator, opening a few plastic storage containers and smelling the contents; orange chicken, penne alfredo with chicken, Salisbury steak with red potatoes, before deciding on the last of the Italian stuffed artichoke that Mr. Dove had tried making. The tall, quite man loved cooking, reveling in his culinary talents and Mr. Gold was all too happy to allow him unfettered access to his kitchen in return for some of the food. He always smiled when he contemplated just who got the better end of that deal, but as it left him with good food and occasionally good company, he never even considered questioning the intelligence of that decision. Taking the artichoke to the toaster oven he set the heater and, since he’d already be waiting, set his tea kettle on the stove. It was an odd dinner to have, but it was easy, and he was done with the day. Mr. Dove wasn’t a loud companion, by any means, but the freedom of silence was alluring, as well as the temporary feeling of independence.

Taking advantage of his solitude, he walked towards his sitting room, following the wall without fear of tripping over something. His house was neatly ordered, everything on shelves or in boxes, and nothing strewn about the floor. The few carpets he did have were worn enough that he didn’t worry about stumbling over thick, lush rugs or folded and curled hall runners. Finding the settee that faced the windows, he trailed his fingers till he reached the edge, taking slow but sure steps, other hand outstretched to meet his record player. Stroking the smooth wood and ornately detailed metal speakers was strangely soothing, a calm anticipation for the music he was about to enjoy. The records were stacked next to the speakers and he shuffled through till he felt what he was searching for. With tastes running more towards the classics, his collection consisted mostly of the Old Masters and tonight he wanted to listen to Mozart’s Piano Concerto #21 in C. Keeping the volume low enough that he could still hear himself think, he walked back to the kitchen, the soft concerto easing his mind and sweeping the worries of the day aside. When he reached the kitchen the kettle was whistling and he was sure the oven was ready and so he took a tea cup from his cupboard, his chamomile tea bags and poured the steaming water over the dried flowers. It was hardly excellent quality, but ease over effort in nearly all cases with him, he just wanted to sit down and relax. Taking a seat at his dining room table he leaned back, his head tipping back over the top of the chair and exposing his neck as he rested his elbows on the armrest, fingers tenting before him. Piano, violins and wind instruments swept him away on a hazy day dream. _Nothing like the Old Masters_ , he thought to himself, his thoughts turning whimsical, almost childishly adventuresome.

 A small, incessant beeping pushed his way into his thoughts and he shook off his illusions before they took real form. Grabbing a plate and fork he knocked the artichoke onto the ceramic and walked back to his seat at the table. Smelling the herbs and cheese, his stomach gave a growl of malcontent and he unceremoniously tucked in to his meal. Savory to his tongue and satisfactory to his belly he finished his meal quickly, only stopping to take small sips of his tea to help wash down his food. When he’d finished he retired to the settee, tea cup in hand, to enjoy the rest of his evening. As with most pleasant things, it did not last nearly long enough. Into the third movement, finished with his tea, he was again pulled from his thoughts by a harsh knock on his front door. Mr. Dove knew better than to knock, considering the place his home and, checking his watch, it was nearly too late for social calls and much too late for business. Once he opened the door, he recognized the artificial, cloying perfume as that of Madame Mayor.

“Ah, Mayor Mills,” his greeting carried no warmth, and had a slight edge of irritation. He stood squarely in the doorway, making no move that could be misinterpreted as welcoming. “To what do I owe this visit?”

He could hear the false smile in her voice when she answered, “I’ve just run into a friend of mine at the supermarket, and she had some interesting concerns.” Mr. Gold recognized the false concern and imitated sincerity in her tone and wondered how anyone could ever miss it.

“I truly have no idea to what you are referring, and unless you’re going to inform me, I’ll be heading off to enjoy what evening I have left to me” It was a credit to his control that he maintained an even, neutral tone. He wasn’t overly fond of insinuating accusations; he never cared to spend the time to understand what someone wasn’t saying or to make an effort to set them right.

“Our little librarian asked me if you owned any part of the Storybrooke Library. Now, Mr. Gold,” she paused, and he could hear her shift her arms, the cloth of her jacket rubbing against each other as she folded her arms. “Why would she be worried about that? What ideas are you putting into her head?”

Raising one arm, palm outstretched to ward off her ire; he answered “I put no ideas into the girl’s head. I merely was seeking a book, which she found.” His hand went to the doorway, a defensive lean, and a subtle warning “Having got the book I needed, I left. I have no other business there, and do not wish to.”

Silence hung between them, both weighing the effort of confrontation against value. It was the Mayor’s move, but when she hesitated, Mr. Gold moved for her “This is an interesting display of concern, Madame Mayor. One might think you had ulterior motives for protecting the Library” the little angry intake of air told him enough “Or is it _our_ little librarian you’re protecting?” he sneered.

“You don’t own the entire town, Mr. Gold—”

“That’s right; you own the rest of it, don’t you?” He interrupted, wishing to be back in his solitude. He waved a hand, banishing the argument as though it were a persistent moth “I have no plans to frequent the library any more than I have to, or scare the girl running it.” He stepped back, effectively marking his exit from the conversation, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist. He could hear her frustrated breathing, and the restraint she exerted to keep from clawing into the muscles on his forearm—but perhaps the latter was just his imagination.

“She’s just a girl, she has nothing you could want,” she said before releasing his arm and he heard her turn and walk away, her high heels clicking dully against the wood steps before sharply rapping against the stone walkway.

Shutting the door, Mr. Gold turned the bolt before indulging in a little thinking aloud. “Well, dearie, we both know that can’t be true.”

He turned off the record player and walked to the kitchen, tea cup in hand, and gathered his plate and utensils. Scrubbing them dry, he left them on the counter to air dry over night before taking his cane from its rest on the counter and heading upstairs. He found the chair beside his vanity and quickly dispensed of his clothes, unknotting the tie, slipping his dress shirt off and shucking his trousers, folding them somewhat carefully over the back of the chair for Mr. Dove to take care of. He found his undershirt and pajama pants at the foot of his bed where he’d left them; his one exception to the rigid neatness that the rest of his life was dominated by. He slid under the thick covers and stretched out, legs outstretched, hands tucked under his head as he spent a few moments contemplating reasons to visit the library. The girl was important to the mayor, in some way he didn’t know, but had decided to find out. He had no plans currently, but he was beginning to form one now.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

With the help of Mr. Dove, the book for Miss Blanchard was ready in relatively short time; just over a week. Pleased with the purchase, she picked it up mere moments after Mr. Gold called to inform her it was ready. It wasn’t rare or valuable as far as he could discover so most of the cost was for the repair work, which Miss Blanchard gladly paid. Having wrapped up the sale to his satisfaction, Mr. Gold retired to the back of his shop to organize his affairs for the afternoon. He’d sent Mr. Dove out on errands and, collecting his library books, headed out into the chilly afternoon, towards the library. His mind was churning over the mystery of the librarian’s importance to the mayor. Everything he’d been able to find on her would’ve led him to believe she was a recluse. Her only friends were the mayor and her cronies, and she only left the library on errands. Hardly a life, one the mayor needn’t worry about protecting. The librarian—Arabella—was just a creature of habit in a town of habitual creatures. Hardly a puzzle, hardly worth the effort, and yet he was walking down the street, cane gently tapping against the sidewalk, in the direction of the library, instead of sending Mr. Dove to return the books.

It was a quarter to six when he pulled open the door, and entered the library, listening for the rustle of patrons, but hearing nothing. He nearly called out before remembering Arabella was deaf, and reconciled himself to slowly walking forward, recalling the desk of the library was only several steps forward. Feeling out of place, he was relieved when he heard footsteps somewhere to his left. He turned to face the sound, repressing a smile when he thought he heard a gasp before her low, soft voice spoke in the silence. “Hello Mr. Gold. How can I help you today?”

Hearing Arabella get situated behind her desk he waited until he was sure she was looking at him before speaking. “Just dropped by to return my books. They were most helpful, thank you”

“You’re welcome Mr. Gold,” she said, and he heard plastic rustle as she checked the books back into her system. There was an empty pause, and he imagined it was because she wondered why he didn’t leave. “Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Gold?”

The way she spoke, with words mispronounced, sounds missing, and that ever present hum, all spoken in an even tone, intrigued him. Listening to her was like listening to a brook, soothing and carefree as it murmured on its merry way. “Actually, there is something else I need. How well stocked is this library on the art of glass blowing?”

^^^^^^

In the week since Mr. Gold’s visit Arabella had made sure to stay busy, reorganizing, going over needed repairs and getting on top of managing the finances and expenses for the library. She didn’t want to leave any room for error or any reason for someone not to find her work satisfactory at least. It was all dull work, fortunately interspersed with a few visits from Ruby, as she scoured the Romance section for her next adventure or from Sherriff Graham as he exchanged one crime thriller for another. Routine helped settle her mind and her nerves, helped give her a strong foundation to structure her life around. Other than the few avid readers in town, the only other patrons were school aged children and teens working on essays or reports for school. She was often glad to help but rarely was she asked. Children seemed to think her odd, and though she could never be sure, she felt like many of them avoided her.

This day had been like any other, Ruby dropping in to get a new book on her lunch break, gushing about the thrills she’d read in the last one and a small high school group with their heads together over textbooks. They’d left well before closing, and she’d been toying with the idea of closing early. Avoiding temptation, she wandered the shelves in the back, making books were shelved properly and scratch papers and pencils were cleaned up. When she made her way to her desk to finish check in for the night she saw the last person she’d expected: Mr. Gold, before her desk looking almost straight at her. She gasped, almost stopping to turn around, hide, get away from him. She had wondered if he was trouble after the Mayor’s reaction, but instead of running away, she greeted him “Hello Mr. Gold. How can I help you today?”

Settling herself behind her desk she felt a little safer. She kept her eyes on him, not wanting to have to ask him to repeat himself, though she rather thought he might oblige her if she needed. He didn’t speak until she sat down, and then spoke of returning his books, with thanks. “You’re welcome Mr. Gold” she said, and then, before she could stop herself; “Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Gold?”

Courtesy, that’s all it had been. Manners and courtesy ingrained into her since before she even knew what they were. It was only fifteen minutes before closing, she could last that long, probably. She realized he was saying something else, he needed another book, on glass blowing. The inquiry puzzled her; he was hardly the kind of man she thought would make his own glass baubles, though she didn’t know one way or another if he had a kiln. Something in her made her think he could have access to anything he wanted, he just needed to ask for it. “Glass blowing?” she asked. “What kind?”

Shrugging indifferently, he waved with a free hand and Arabella thought she understood glass blowing, and something about wanting to date a large piece he had. The image brought to mind was one of a large, tacky rose, or another cheap, kitschy bauble. “Well, not the activity itself then,” she said as she stood up, pushing her chair back “But… a book about pieces. When, how, by whom they were made?”

Mr. Gold nodded, and she took that as her cue to start walking, talking aloud to dispel her nervousness. “A history book would be a good place to start. Maybe one about different pieces and styles,” she didn’t dare turn around until she got to the right shelf, giving herself a few minutes to compose her nerves, to think of something intelligent to say. The walk ended too soon, the shelves containing books about glass just a few steps beyond those of book binding.

“Do you have any idea what era the glass is from?” Facing him, she posed the question, and then focused intently on his mouth, noticing how his lips twisted to form words, the movements fascinating and lulling. Too late to catch the whole sentence, she thanked her stars for being able to catch “overview” and “history”. The books she had in mind were on the top shelf, easily reached if she was seizing blindly, but she wanted to be sure she found the right ones. “Just a minute,” she said, snagging a step stool from the end of the aisle, momentarily grateful for his blindness as she hefted it awkwardly.

The step stool landed harder than she meant it to, she could tell from the jarring vibrations under her palms, and the flinch she caught out of the corner of her eye. Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth she all but jumped to stand atop the step stool. A few seconds to reestablish her balance and she started perusing the titles with more care, choosing three that seemed suitable for foundational knowledge. Cradling the books in her arms, she stepped back, but miscalculated her balance and footing. The books tumbled out of her arms as she fought to find hold somewhere, her hands coming upon hard muscle encased in soft wool, arms like iron wrapped around her.

^^^^^^

He’d heard the misstep a split second before a guttural whimper and the clatter of books falling, some instinct pushing him to step towards the sound with his arms half outstretched. It felt as though pure chance put him in the way of her fall, his arms wrapping around her awkwardly; one around her front at her waist, the other around her shoulders. Her back was flush against his front as he stooped, holding her securely. Arabella’s hands had a firm hold on his arm; Mr. Gold was surprised at the strength she possessed. Her shallow breathing told him she was still a bit frightened by the sudden tumble, so he held on a few seconds more before shifting his hands to a more appropriate position, allowing her to turn to face him as she attempted to gain her bearing. As his hands brushed along her back he was startled to find he could easily feel her ribs through the cheap cotton of her dress, as well as her spine and shoulder blades, which protruded from her curved back as she hunched over, calming herself.

She had hardly any weight to her; it had been like catching half of a sack of potatoes. Taking in a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding , Mr. Gold could smell everything about her. Cinnamon and cloves, a heady spicy blend mingled with that elusive cleanliness and a faint trace of something floral. Realizing she was standing more or less on her own, and her breathing had slowed to a calmer rate, he released her and stepped away. “Pardon me,” he said, his voice sounding a bit strained to his ears. He coughed, trying to clear the tickling sensation out of his throat. His hands fluttered, struggling for something to do, and he realized he’d dropped his cane. Apparently Arabella had realized it as well, when he felt the hard wood clatter against his fingers, pushed their hastily by the frazzled librarian.

The sharp hiss of hands brushing cloth reached his ears, as did the light smack of books stacking one atop the other. “I’m sorry,” he heard her say softly, almost too soft to hear clearly, using breath to form the words more than voice. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” She was almost tripping over her words in her haste to assure herself that he wasn’t upset.

He held up a hand, stopping her frantic apology. “I am quite alright. If you are as well, we can finish here. It must be nearly closing time.”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine—it is. Let me just—we can take these—I’ll get them checked out for you right away” she stammered and he heard her scurry away. He followed, nearly as quick, but by the time he reached the check out desk, Arabella was all but shoving the books he needed at him with a hurried “Good night Mr. Gold.”

“Thank you, Arabella. Good night,” he murmured, nodding his head in some semblance of a farewell and, tucking the books under his arm, headed for the door and out into the evening. Later that evening, after dinner with Mr. Dove, he could almost imagine to himself that he still felt her slight weight against him.

^^^^^^

It was with relief and a great deal of horrific embarrassment that Arabella locked up the library that night. She’d been so stupid, nearly knocking over a defenseless blind man and dropping the books he wanted in the process. Falling was nothing new to her, after a while one learned instinctively to brace, or turn or otherwise prepare themselves for the impact. Experience would have saved her, if Mr. Gold hadn’t, and even now, a flush of embarrassment heated her face and neck. It was mortifying and she wanted to put it all behind her. She closed five minutes early, using the spare time to run through the library for any trash she’d missed before. Finding little, she decided to vacuum, even though she’d done it two nights before. It couldn’t hurt to be thorough. Once the vacuuming had been done she set to cleaning the tables, and for extra measure, the chairs as well, then the exposed areas of the shelves, and her desk. When she found herself cleaning tables for the second time, she forced her mind to put away the cleaning supplies and walk upstairs. She shut off the lights, running faster than normal to get out of the dark. By the time she reached her door she was panting, and she flung herself at her threadbare couch and lay there breathing, trying to focus on cracks in the ceiling instead of her pounding heart beat.

She didn’t want to think about what would have happened if she’d knocked him down, she already felt like she was walking a fine like with him. He’d been nice; giving her a minute to collect herself, before stepping away, probably worried the clumsy deaf idiot was going to do something else foolish. All the tension she’d thought she’d gotten rid of over the previous week hit her light a truck. Laying there wasn’t going to soothe any nerves tonight, no matter how badly she wished it might. With resolution, she stood up and walked to the kitchen and got out her small pot to boil herself water for tea. Tonight was a peppermint night, and she downed two cups of the tea before finally starting on her dinner. She was in the mood for simple fare and decided microwaved baked potatoes were very much in order. Eating in the window of her living room, she watched the town quiet for the night, only a few citizens roaming the streets, headed for home, or who knew where else. Blessing the safety of her library, she sat there long after her bowl was empty and cold, only moving when she realized she’d become uncomfortable from her rigid stillness.

Preparing for bed went quickly, yearning as she was for the comfort of her bed. She turned off the lights, all except her bedside light and her nightlight before slipping between the chilly sheets. The extra light was wasteful, but she needed the comfort that night. With her lights on she could keep her eyes open and focus on her room instead of retreating into her jumbled thoughts. It took a long time to finally grow drowsy, her thoughts becoming muddled even as they rose to the forefront of her mind. Her last thoughts before falling asleep were of how comfortable it had been to have his arms around her, how for just one moment she’d felt safe.


	4. Chapter 4

It was Mr. Dove who returned the glass blowing books, discretely, for Mr. Gold. The appeared on her desk one morning the following week, with fragments of paper stuck between the pages, marking important places. Arabella shook out the bits of paper and re-shelved the books and tried not to think much of it. She couldn’t start to question why he avoided returning them himself, or she’d start blushing with mortification. Instead she turned her attention to her newest distraction. Henry Mills, the Mayor’s son was suddenly spending more than usual at the library, head bowed over a wide brown book and wandering the shelves, looking for something. The first time he asked her for help looking for fairy tales Arabella reminded him of his mother’s rules, hating the disappointment that clouded his features. The second time, before she could remind him, he said that the rules were for books he was allowed to check out. If he didn’t check them out, he could read whatever he wanted, right?

How was she to argue with his logic, his smile, and his endearing curiosity? She knew what Madame Mayor meant, but he seemed to want to read books as a starving man wants to eat, and her library was just the feast he was dreaming of. She would walk with him as he held the book tight under his arm, wandering through nearly every section of the library. Sometimes he would flip through the pages of the books she found, hardly glancing at the pictures, seeking for words that he couldn’t seem to find. Other times he would take a book back to his corner, curl up in a chair, or on the floor and read. She kept an eye on the clock for him, letting him know when it was time for him to return home, and she would slip him a book his mother would approve of and hide the one he’d been reading in her desk. She felt bad keeping a secret from her friend, but Henry seemed to be so excited to be at her library. It wasn’t quite happiness, but she hoped maybe having a secret, and all the “fairy tale research” would help.

Arabella was caught off guard by one of his questions one day. He asked her what books she liked to read. “I’m busy here, I don’t have time to read” she said, feeling practical and rational. Books and reading were for people who had free time, and she was always busy. She thought she saw a disappointed look cross his face, but it was gone too quickly to be sure. “Why do you ask?”

Henry shrugged, his slight shoulders rolling smoothly, almost a practiced gesture and didn’t give her an answer other than curiosity. She kept a closer eye on him after that, noticing that some afternoons books were replaced with lists he kept covered when she was nearby. He was pouring over the book he kept with him, turning pages to read a passage and then flipping back to another. She wondered what kind of assignment could summon this level of dedication from a ten year old boy, but brushed the thought off, not wanting to speculate or meddle. She found that she liked this routine of sorts with him, that she looked forward to his visits and questions and still presence in her library. Even on days he didn’t stop by she found herself thinking of him, when she found a book he might want for his research, or when she saw him from her apartment windows. He seemed to watch much of the world as she did, in it but apart from it. For some reason it made her sad, and she couldn’t quite shake the feeling.

She’d arranged things so he could easily get her attention, his preferred method being to throw bits of paper at her till she turned from her desk, or using the plastic cover of a book to reflect light on the ceiling and walls. The boy was rather ingenious and persistent when it came to wanting to talk, or wanting help. Polite too; sometimes people forgot that they needed to face her when they spoke, and they’d look away, or move past her, expecting her to still be able to follow the conversation. Henry was even picking up a few signs from her. Not enough for a full, fluent conversation, but enough for a sideways glance and a smile, or a questioning look. Sometimes it would give her an odd feeling between her stomach and heart, a squeezing sort of feeling. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

There came a week where Henry never stopped by. Instead of cleaning or reorganizing, Arabella found herself walking back to the front of the library, to see if he’d come by. Her pacing became so incessant that some of the other kids in the library were starting to watch her, so instead of finding work to do she sat at her desk and merely pretended to work. Occasionally distracting herself by cataloguing, she was relieved when it was finally six o’clock and she could lock up the library. Turning to survey, she realized just how much she’d let her duties go.

Sighing and pushing her chair back to stand, Arabella paused when Henry’s question from weeks ago came to her mind. She worked in a library, why didn’t she find more time to read? It was a simple matter of budgeting time, wasn’t it? Making her rounds through the shelves and among the tables she set to work, re-shelving books and cleaning up papers and pencils. It took longer than usual, having sat idle nearly the whole afternoon but she found it in herself to get it all taken care of in the better part of an hour. She tried not to think it dreary, but as she walked around, turning off the lights, the thought kept returning. She ascended the stairs to the upper hall, walking quickly out of habit, not any inner necessity. Lost in her own thoughts, she went through the motions of preparing and eating her dinner. She sat for quite a while at her dining table, simply thinking of what she wanted from her job, her life and even—a little selfishly—from her friends.

Looking at the clock, she saw it was eight o’clock; time for her to get to bed. But she didn’t move, taking in the train of thought that had entered. When she finally did stand up, she left her dishes at the table and walked out her door, down the hall and into the dark library where she flicked a few lights on, more than enough to see by and not be frightened of shadows. She hunted down shelves, looking for what she didn’t know, but could feel the need to find. Her thoughts came in half formed sentiments and fragmented ideas until she found one book that stood out to her. A children’s book, by the category, but when she opened it she had to fight to catch her breath, ever so slightly. She took the book, looking around as though someone might catch her and ran upstairs, almost forgetting to turn off the lights. She undressed in haste, throwing on her night shirt before jumping into her bed, book in hand before drawing up the covers to her chin and settled down, fifteen minutes past curfew, to read a book.


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Dove had returned the books on glass blowing, and though Mr. Gold had several items he could use extra references on, he had made no plans to return to the library. He wasn’t unsettled by the librarian, and he certainly wasn’t avoiding the establishment. He was a busy man, with numerous demands of his time and efforts and had to prioritize wisely. He did allow himself, when he was at leisure, to ponder the mystery of Madam Mayor’s protective streak towards the young woman.

From what he knew, through his own experience and through the grapevine network, Mayor Mills kept only useful associates close to her. Lackeys, and underlings; any one she was better than, was above, who she could use, was untouchable as long as they kept their head down and never questioned her. And no one ever did, as well as he’d been able to find out. He had no such use for inferiors underfoot, though he did know well how to make use of people’s fear of him. He had loyalty and assistance from Mr. Dove; any other aid, assistance or abilities he bartered, bribed or outright extorted from townsfolk. With a war waged between him and the mayor, casualties were secrets, and the main tactic was neither giving nor taking much ground, and always circling, waiting for the other’s guard to drop.

Weeks went by, weeks of classical music and tea before throwing himself into his bed. Nights sitting on his settee contemplating his next project at the shop, and whether he would need to visit the library; afternoons, before closing when patronage had slowed, contemplating what value a recluse had to the conniving Mayor. He hit dead ends and walls with most of his inquiries, often feeling as though he should give up the hunt, a mental sluggishness that plagued his thoughts when he thought on the ambiguity too long.

Weeks turned into months before he could take the time to realize it. Whispers, muttered secrets, gossip on the wind circulated around town. Nothing terribly scandalous, and nothing truly concrete, but the rumor mill seemed to be churning harder than usual. It felt like a cross breeze blowing on the back of his neck, disconcerting on the whole. When he did pass by the Mayor on their respective errands she kept her remarks short and sharp, barbed comments meant to cut, but barely drawing notice through his thick skin. It was pathetic, her attempts to rile him up. He knew better, knew that in the right circumstance she would come to him, perhaps not crawling, nor begging, but needing his help all the same. She’d done it once before, when she’d wanted to adopt a child. Mr. Gold had been able to get in touch with some discrete and desperate agencies. He hadn’t been asked from where he’d procured the child, and so never felt the need to mention Henry was born in a prison. It’d make for an interesting surprise when the Mayor came to him wanting answer’s to Henry’s questions.

Just recently he’d come to understand that she’d arrange for sessions with the local therapist, Archibald Hopper, a tenant of his. The boy seemed to be withdrawing into his own world, away from the stifling of Madam Mayor. While he didn’t know details, he’d never needed to. With her guard up most of the time, getting under the skin of the Mayor was never a strenuous task. She’d take offense from a mute if she felt so inclined. Instead he waited, biding his time. Something, a feeling in his gut, a prickle on the back of his neck, was warning him that a better, more opportune time was approaching. He’d never given much thought to his knack for dealing, for his creativity at striking fear, or his seeming sixth sense for desperation. It was the way things had always been. He had a feeling that Henry would become an interesting piece in the game for power he played.

Closing up, Mr. Gold waited for Mr. Dove to finish his own duties around the shop before sliding into the back of his Cadillac and making the rounds collecting rent with his assistant. He preferred to work around the outside of the town and work his way in, any feelings of irritation better dealt with when the prospect of returning home was not preceded by a tedious drive home. In the fading day, with his hands in front of him, grasping the head of his cane and Mr. Dove behind him, he felt they struck a rather formidable picture, and the quick compliance of his debtors seemed to be evidence enough to that. Tenants and cash went by in a haze until he walked up the worn wooden steps to Mrs. Lucas’ Bed and Breakfast. When he walked in, he could hear the restless Ruby Lucas stop still, too nervous to even warn her grandmother that their landlord had arrived. Mrs. Lucas was attending to a customer, the first in far too long as well as he could remember. He heard the elderly proprietor ask for a name to write in her ledger.

“Swan. Emma Swan”

It was as though a light had flicked on in a dark room, illuminating all corners, revealing every nick-nack to the inhabitant. Memories didn’t so much roll over him, as nearly drown him in their vibrant clarity. His beloved son, lost to him, but soon to be found. Spinning to forget, to charm, and to pass the years. Wheeling and dealing, wrapping people around his fingers as he lined them up according to his plans. He remembered wielding power, feeling magic coursing through his very being, free and unhindered. _I am Rumpelstiltskin_. He remembered all, every moment trapped in this town, and the three hundred years getting there. Emma, the savior of their homeland; the prodigal daughter had finally returned to save them. Emma, the product of True Love manifest who he’d risked everything to assure would be, and would return, was before him. Emma, the mother of Henry, the Mayor’s adopted son. She was so close he could have reached out and touched her, could smell leather, car and something only describable as restlessness on her. In less than a moment he’d become himself again, smoothly, without attracting any notice from the occupants of the room. Though he was still blind, he could sense the women around him, more keenly than he’d ever been able to before. “Emma.” He heard rustling as she turned to face him. “What a lovely name.”

“Thanks” he heard her respond, casually but with some confused surprise.

A new arrival in town, she could hardly be expected to feel fear, to have developed the second nature to avoid showing any chink in her armor to the notorious pawnbroker. And armor she had, he knew now. Neither of her parents had made it through to guide her through life like they’d planned. She’d grown up an outcast, thinking she was unwanted. Much to the contrary, she was more wanted than she could ever have known. He smiled, gently but not sincerely as he heard Mrs. Lucas open her desk drawer. “It’s all here,” he heard the cold tone in her voice as she held out the roll of bills and he was tempted to pluck it out of her outstretched hands, but patience restrained him.

“Yes, yes of course it is. Yes, dear, thank you” he said hastily in his brogue, the words just above a whisper. He reached out, Mrs. Lucas all but shoving the money into his own outstretched hand. He tucked the money into his pocket and turned to face the Savior. “You enjoy your stay… Emma.” Her name fell so easily from his tongue, and he remembered the barter for it, and every thought after gaining the knowledge consumed with remembering it. He nodded in farewell before turning to go, cane tapping on the floor in the few steps towards the door. He feigned fumbling briefly for the handle, before pausing to turn momentarily at the wolf-girl, unspeaking with trepidation at the doorway to the nest room. He remembered her, all fierceness and loyalty washed out with his Curse until she remained a faint glimmer of her former self. The wrong side of her wild streak broadcasted for the whole town to see, he knew her to be better than that. He stepped out the door and into the night, taking care with the steps where he met Mr. Dove waiting for him.

“Once we’re back at the house, we’ll have work to do, Mr. Dove,” he said to his assistant, smiling in the dark at the not quite surprised ‘yes sir’ he heard. There was much to do; he needed time to assess what he knew of this town, without the fog of the spell preventing him from following the trail. It was looking to be a night of pacing, and muttering and Mr. Dove, ever faithful at home or in this world, would need to help him prepare. The final battle would need patient preparation if he was to be unhindered on the winning side. Once back in the car, he grinned ever fiercer. Change in Storybrooke couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. But then, that’s how he’d planned it to be.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

As predicted, Mr. Gold—Rumpelstiltskin—spent much of the night alternating between pacing the plush rug and reclining in whatever cushioned seat was nearest. He cursed his blindness, wanting an external way to track out his musings; he could hardly ask Mr. Dove to note his dictations when they concerned a Curse, an uppity evil queen and two fools who kept losing each other, and while he could list things with his type writer it didn’t have the same satisfaction as a chart might. As it was, he settled for double checking his thoughts. He first took inventory of the town, trying to understand the web of false memories Regina had arranged. While most of the inhabitants of Storybrooke were simple folk, peasants or low ranking lords Rumpelstiltskin thought long on Regina’s enemies and allies. Allies made a short list, by any standard, as did enemies. This poor excuse of a sovereign was willing to destroy their entire home world, all for the sake of spiting one girl. Headstrong, rash and unthinking, she’d taken his curse happily, willing to do everything it took, and unknowingly destroying any shred of chance for her own happiness in the bargain. That’s what made her the ideal caster. She’d left boundaries of decency behind, willing to take any risk to see her own vengeance bear fruit. Poisonous fruit, Rumpelstiltskin thought to himself wryly.

It was a quiet evening, but for the pacing. Mr. Dove had sorted out his employer’s room upstairs before retiring into his own bedroom, leaving Rumpelstiltskin to his own musings. Finally, when thoughts began to repeat themselves hazily, he walked upstairs to sleep.  Though he’d managed to identify a few of the key players in this haphazard game, there were some unaccounted for; and some, like the librarian, he couldn’t yet place.

^^^^^^

Bright sunlight woke Arabella from a dead sleep. She marveled at the odd sensation before rolling over to check her bedside clock. When her sleep muddled brain finally sorted out the time she gasped in horror and leaped out of bed, knocking her book off the bed, a hair tie it’s only place marker. She’d been up reading until after midnight, finally giving in to sleep when she’d been unable to remember anything she’d just read. No wonder she’d slept in so late. With only half an hour until the library was to open, she felt slothful and negligent, ashamed of her laziness as she haphazardly mixed apple cider vinegar and water to condition her hair. She didn’t have time to work baking soda through her heavy curls this late in the morning, so she quickly toweled off and ran to her closet, careful not to slip on the tiles or hardwood floors. She looked back and forth from herself to the closet and cursed her negligence again; she’d forgotten to shave and was running out of time. She owned one pair of pants that she could think of, hardly remembering when or why she’d bought them, but she quickly pulled them on, blushing at the tight fit. She pulled on a camisole and shrugged on a solid blue blouse. Simple black flats came next, and without time to dry her hair she couldn’t put it up properly, settling instead for a simple braid running down her back. She felt like a teenager again, but it couldn’t be helped. She grabbed the book she’d stayed up late for off her bed and ran downstairs, forgoing breakfast in her determination to open the library doors on time.

It turned out to be a good thing. Her library was busier than normal, which wasn’t saying much, but it was a noticeable difference to her. A few new faces came in and she felt herself blush with embarrassment when she thought of the image she was presenting. A librarian in jeans was hardly professional, even under the most lenient circumstances she could imagine. Trying to avoid thinking of what Madam Mayor would think, Arabella gratefully threw herself into assisting the patrons that came in. Her book, half finished, lay next to the check in pile, waiting for a spare moment for her to continue the adventure.

The spare moment was a long time in coming. Ruby came in at lunch time, exuding excitement as she returned her latest tawdry romance. Understanding Ruby could get difficult sometimes. She was constantly moving, either in excitement or allure, the striking brunette was not a still kind of girl. Today, however, she was able to focus entirely on Arabella as she spilled her news; there was someone new in town, and she was staying at the B&B. Ruby waxed romantic as she shared her speculations with the librarian struggling to keep up with the conversation with nods of encouragement. She was from Boston, and Henry’s biological mother, something about hunting—Arabella didn’t quite catch it—and that Henry had brought her to Storybrooke.

Reaching out, Arabella rested her arm on Ruby’s wrist, causing the waitress to pause. Arabella swallowed, trying to understand all the things she couldn’t hear. “Brought her here? What do you mean?”

Eyes widening in excitement, Ruby managed to twist her wrist so they were both clutching each other. When she spoke next, it was over enunciated, but it’s meaning crystal clear. Henry had run away to Boston trying to hunt down his birth mother. Arabella gasped “No” while Ruby enthusiastically nodded yes.

A near-idea wiggled at the back of her mind, two thoughts trying to find a connection that could be important. Nothing fit, no new idea came to light and so Arabella gave up, an uneasy feeling of wanting to leave things well enough alone settling in her mind. She did catch herself thinking that Henry hadn’t run away, he had run to, before mentally shrugging the idea off. Mayor Mills was Henry’s mother. She’d been there for him, when his real—biological—mother hadn’t. Pulling herself back to the real world, she caught Ruby talking about having to get back to work and she hurried to check out the book she held out. They made short work of good-bye and the reckless young woman hurried out, faster than Arabella would have thought in heels that high.  

Archibald Hopper stopped by not too long after, clearly nervous and seeming to bide his time until he left in a rush, apparently deciding against checking out any books. A brother and sister hid out for a while after school, keeping to themselves, eyeing her warily the first time she came around to see if they needed help. Arabella didn’t think they were trouble makers; they seemed to be worried about something, and she felt that being near them made it worse, so she stayed away, a little relieved when they left. She hadn’t caught anyone, but she felt as though everyone was staring at her when she walked around. She grew so flustered worrying about what everyone must be thinking she didn’t realize she was starving herself until she stood up too quickly and the world went hazy and metal tasting for a moment. Sitting down in the nearest chair she tried to collect herself, breathing slowly as she considered her options for food.

It would take a while to heat up something in her little kitchen, but the diner was just a block away. She could run in, grab something to eat and run back. She couldn’t recall ever eating there, but there had to be at least one time, she wasn’t a complete recluse. Standing slowly, she scanned the library quickly, not finding any one lingering in the aisles. A stifling, guilty uneasiness crept down her back and settled in her stomach, but hunger was winning out. Pulling open a small drawer that held cash from late fees Arabella grabbed several bills, completely in the dark about what things might cost at the diner. When she took a moment to pause she realized she didn’t even know what the diner served. Today was as good a day as any to discover something new. Before she could gather some cash and head out the door, she was stopped by Mayor Mills standing dauntingly in front of the check out desk.

^^^^^^

The break for lunch came late at the pawn shop, an inventory, not only of the artifacts, but of all the deals Mr. Gold had forged. He was well woven into the community, not obvious to the common observer, but in one way or another everyone came under his influence. Rents, loans, and acquisitions tied him to so many citizens, and he was impressed that his old apprentice had hopefully learned some subtly. He wasn’t going to hold his breath by any means, but in case it had been fully intentional he was going to have to watch his step. The first of which was to start applying pressure to certain bargains left unfulfilled. Poor Mr. Dove was holding well with the strange requests, letting neither his concern nor his confusion at the odd questions he was bombarded with. Though working with Mr. Gold was a unique experience on the best of days, today it wasn’t so much a different quality of strange, but most certainly a larger quantity.

Once he realized what time it was, Rumpelstiltskin quickly sent Mr. Dove to the diner for lunch, having forgotten to make any preparations in advance. Usually the pair ate leftovers from dinner, but Mr. Dove had been preoccupied with attending to his employer’s questions, sparing a thought for dinner hadn’t occurred to him. So instead the tall man lumbered out of the shop with orders for a simple lunch and at least two cups of coffee for his boss.

Alone for a few minutes, Rumpelstiltskin took time to breathe, trying to force the tension building inside him away. He couldn’t be too alert, though 28 years should have lowered the Queen’s guard considerably. “Should have” didn’t always mean “did” in his lengthy experience, and it wouldn’t do to tip his hand until absolutely unavoidable. He hoped that with Emma Swan in town her focus would be too divided to pay him much mind, especially given as she usually was to discredit his abilities in favor of reminding him of his handicap. He vaguely remembered, through Mr. Gold’s false memories, acerbic verbal sparring between himself and the mayor; prompted in part by residual animosity between them, and in part because Mr. Gold seemed to make it his job to avoid getting on well with anyone. Clever touch of Regina’s blurring the line between his real self and this cursed persona.

He spent the rest of Mr. Dove’s absence organizing the timelines for his deals, those from their home world and from this one. When his assistant walked in with food in hand, Rumpelstiltskin sensed something in the silence Mr. Dove brought with him. He gave up his pacing, removing his hand from the case he’d been using as a guide and bracing himself on his cane he looked in the general direction of his assistant. “You seem to have something to say, Mr. Dove?”

“Yes sir.” Mr. Dove said in a low, even tone. He took a few moments to collect his words, something Rumpelstiltskin was grateful for. His assistant was not an unintelligent man, though many people would think so; both men knew the value of words as much as silence, and though Mr. Gold and Rumpelstiltskin were clever enough to play with them, Mr. Dove preferred to give more weight to his through their scarcity. “As I left the diner, I noticed Madame Mayor exiting the library,” he paused, again searching for the right words to convey his meaning “a rare occurrence on its own, the thing I noticed was her expression. She seemed… almost exultant”

“Indeed?” With the Savior in town, Regina saw the need to visit the library. Research? Probably not, she made the law in this forsaken town. More likely she needed to reassure herself of whatever connection she held over the library, or, more likely still, the librarian. “Thank you, Dove.” Gesturing to the back, the two men sat down to eat, one to contemplate his remaining duties, and the other to consider his schemes.

^^^^^^

Death by embarrassment should have been an easy way to die. So thought Arabella as she watched Mayor Mills leave the library, a sway to her step that seemed to rub salt into the open wounds that were Arabella’s shortcomings. Thinly-veiled disapproval was all over the mayor’s face, in her sidelong glances at the timid librarian when she looked around. But she’d smiled and pulled her up to walk somewhere more out of the way of prying eyes, and Arabella felt her cheeks blaze with mortification when the mayor spoke to her of her “inappropriate attire”, how Arabella’s appearance reflected not only on herself, but the Mayor, for helping her get the job. Nodding and murmuring “yes ma’am” got her through the conversation without saying something stupid, but then, as the mayor was about to leave she’d noticed the book Arabella had set aside for reading.

Arabella lied, truly worried that if she told Mayor Mills the truth she would regret somehow, and tried to brush off the mayors questions by gathering up the book with those meant to be checked in. Like a parent coercing a child to do chores the mayor followed Arabella, and so she had no choice but to shelve the book, deciding to put it from her mind. When she faced the mayor she took one look into her dark eyes and felt the Mayor knew she’d been neglecting her duties. Madam Mayor lifted her hand to Arabella’s chin, holding her in place like a child being lectured to. Quite clearly, Mayor Mills reminded her that she was safe in the library, this was her place, and it was for the best if she would remember that. Arabella nodded her understanding, not trusting herself to speak. With a satisfied smile, the mayor left Arabella standing alone, clutching the stack of books to her chest. Arabella didn’t look back at the shelf as she walked away to start re-shelving books. She didn’t need misty moors, mysterious keys or lovesick gentlemen when she had her real life to keep in order. The rest of her afternoon passed in a hazy blur of cataloguing, shelving and cleaning. A weight lay in her chest and she didn’t know how to go about knocking it out. Instead she went through the motions of closing down the library, too lost in her own worries to make much effort to run away from the dark.

She was starving by the time she made it to her kitchen, she could feel her stomach rumbling and even though there were no witnesses, she looked around as though someone might hear her. The first thing she reached for was a can of clam chowder, pouring the contents into a small saucepan as she cranked up the heat. The second thing she started was her tea kettle, feeling a keen need for peppermint tea to soothe her nerves. She didn’t bother with pouring the chowder into a bowl, and without meaning to she finished the whole can, her hunger overriding her sense of frugality. Tea went a long way to soothing her frazzled emotions and easing the tension out of her shoulders and she was glad she could allow herself some luxuries.

Cleaning up was a quick and quiet affair, and with chagrin she thought of her laziness in not arranging a proper table. She wasn’t some uncivilized spinster; she had more self respect than that—didn’t she? Shaking off those thoughts and the possible threat of tears she set the dishes out to dry, walked into her room and shed her clothes. Before she slid into pajamas she walked to the bathroom and stared at her reflection. When she thought of the mayor’s beauty she didn’t think she could compare. The mayor was fair, but it wasn’t the same kind. She had a darkness about her features, from her lush hair to her dark lips and her rich brown eyes. Always impeccably dressed, the mayor had clothes that clung to curves, showing them off from any angle and with every step. The pale, skinny girl that looked out at Arabella seemed weak; her hair stringy when she combed out her braid, her light blue eyes seemed vapid, and she felt her lips were all the wrong shape. Looking down, she rather thought if she tried she could count every one of her ribs. Hardly a beauty, she turned out the light and slipped her pajamas on, flicking her nightlight on at the last minute before she curled on her side and fell asleep wishing.

^^^^^^

News traveled quickly in Storybrooke, and scandalous news even quicker. That Henry had run away, and returned with a woman he claimed was his birth mother was shocking enough, but that the mother in question had ended up in a holding cell twice and had vandalized the esteemed Mayor’s beloved apple tree seemed to be too much for the residents of the formerly quiet town to keep to themselves. Had he not caught the murmurs of gossip from passerby, Rumpelstiltskin would have been informed of every detail from Mr. Dove. One of his duties was to keep his employer apprised of any out of the ordinary happenings, especially one that might lead to a profitable deal. It was icing on the cake to almost encounter Emma Swan and Henry walking down the street, hearing them talk comfortably to one another.

It was this, and the desire to truly see Regina in this world that brought the former Dark One to the back yard of the Mayor. Mr. Dove led him to the gate and left his employer to do the rest; though blind, he had an excellent sense of direction which Rumpelstiltskin put to good use, intending to get under Regina’s skin.

He could smell the fresh cut wood and his cane intercepted a few stray apples. He wished he could see the devastation, especially knowing what ridiculous lengths to which she’d gone to ensure that the apple tree from her youth followed her to wherever she called home for the time being. “What a mess” he said in greeting as he drew closer.

“Not for long” Regina replied, a confident edge to her words, a statement of fact. “What can I do for you Mr. Gold?”

He paused for half a moment, as though considering himself “I was just in the neighborhood, thought I’d pop by” He hazarded a few steps to the side, encountering more apples. “Lovely to see you in such high spirits” there was a sense of sincerity to his words, though the choice was a bit sarcastic to his ears.

He heard her laugh, a mirthless laugh, and one he remembered well once she’d found her stride in seizing power. “Well it’s been a good day.” He imagined she was smiling over her victory already. “I just rid the town of an unwanted nuisance.” Of course she would think she’d won. Hardly one to ever plan the long game; she rarely considered it, preferring instant gratification instead.

No one could mistake who she meant, but he posed the question any way “Emma Swan? Really?” he walked forward, around where he could hear Regina and reached out a hand, coming into contact with a few leaves. This was all playacting, and she didn’t even realize she was center stage.

“Yes,” she said, self satisfaction coating every word. “I imagine she’s halfway to Boston by now.”

Making a sound between a scoff and an exhale, Rumpelstiltskin plucked an apple he felt slide under his finger. “Oh, I wouldn’t bet on that.” He grinned briefly as he spoke, but let the smile slip away as his tone grew serious. He caressed the apple and walked towards Regina a few steps, making sure to keep his cane before him, keep his motions confident enough to impress, but hesitant enough to keep from arousing suspicion. “I’ve just heard her strolling down Main Street with your boy.” Shock was apparent in the moment of silence and he relished his next words “Thick as thieves, they were.”

Regina found her voice, if not many words to employ. “What?” was all she managed as he walked past her.

He turned to face her voice, careful to keep from looking where he was sure her face was. “Perhaps you should have come to me,” his accent twisted the words into a not-so-veiled invitation. “If Ms. Swan is a problem you can’t fix, I’m only too happy to help” he rested his hands against his cane, still caressing the apple he held carelessly with his thumb. “For a price, of course.” He added seamlessly with a nod.

As he knew she would, Regina laughed, a soft bitter laugh. “I’m not in the business of making deals with you anymore,” her words got low as she turned away and he grinned inwardly. So all knowing, she thought she was when she could scarcely see past her own nose.

Feigning ignorance he asked his former apprentice “To which deal are you referring?” He lifted the apple in his hand, turning it over in his nimble fingers and feeling for bruises or broken skin. Silence met him, except for the rustle of fabric as she turned to face him. She could never keep much hidden from him, always too easy to play once you got to know which buttons to push, and how.

“You know what deal,” she said, not quite accusing, but wary, waiting.

Rumpelstiltskin chuckled dryly. “Oh, right, yeah.” He smiled as he spoke each word deliberately, even when speaking quickly, fluidly. “The boy I procured for you.” He flicked a few stray hairs away from his face with a quick shake of his head. “Henry. Did I ever tell you what a lovely name that was?” Her anger and sadness were nearly palpable. This was far too easy, hardly any sport to it, but it was necessary. “How ever did you pick it?” he asked softly.

She was silent for a few seconds before she sidestepped his question “Did you want her to come to town?” He could hear her stepping closer to him, trying to showcase confidence. If he had been any one else in town he would have bought it, but even Mr. Gold would have sensed the act for what it was; bravado. “You wanted all this to happen, didn’t you?” Her words came quicker as her confidence swelled. “Your finding Henry wasn’t an accident, was it?”

He stopped her line of accusation with a show of ignorance. “Whatever do you mean?” he spoke the question softly, not giving her the satisfaction of rising to her bait.

“Where did you get him?”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t answer, only allowed a faint twitch of a smile to get through his guard.

“Do you know something?” she pushed again.

“I’ve no idea what you’re implying.” He said, not too quickly, but this couldn’t go on much longer. He needed her on edge, but not sure which direction to go in.

“I think you do” she insisted before he’d barely finished speaking. “Who is this woman, his mother? This… Emma Swan?” her emotions were barely in check,

A small grin teased the corners of his mouth as he listened to the fear she didn’t allow into her voice. He shrugged vaguely, trivializing her fears and her questions. “I would say you think you know exactly who she is.” Her heard her quickened breathing, but before she could ask another question, he simply told her “I really must be going,” and turned around towards the sound of the street. He heard her step around him quickly, but didn’t feel her lay a hand on him.

“Tell me what you know about her.” Regina insisted, standing directly in front of him. He looked almost directly at her, willing to play one ace up his sleeve, knowing it would get under her skin enough to keep her off balance and unsure of herself.

“I’m not gonna answer you, dear,” his voice even, his tone severe. “So I suggest you excuse me.” After the heartbeat of silence he inclined his head ever so slightly and whispered “Please.”

She was silent, and he was sure she was staring, and so he lifted the apple to his lips as though he had no care in the world and bit down, the crisp crunch of the apple loud in the stillness between them. He nodded his head to the side in a mockery of respect and stepped around the unmoving Mayor. As he stepped out of her garden he threw the apple over his shoulder and strutted away.

That night, stretched out on his bed and breathing evenly in the darkness, he considered his next move. With his memories returned, it was back to the original power play, but this time neither of them could rely on their own powers. It was all suggestion and manipulation from now on. In the dark Rumpelstiltskin grinned. He excelled at manipulation, having spent centuries honing the skill. Let the Queen make her moves. She would not win.


	7. Chapter 7

The library maintained its hustle and bustle since the stranger’s arrival. Though their paths hadn’t crossed, Arabella felt that it was the sudden change from mundane routine to…to something different that prompted people to utilize the town library. She had her hands full with assisting people, many whom she’d never met, only seen in passing as she looked out the windows of her precious haven. It took a fair amount of getting used to, having to learn the faces and speech patterns of new people. She felt more and more alienated as she encountered each new patron. The only relief she had was when an older patron spoke to her. She clung to the familiar, glad to know that she had somewhere to belong. She reminded herself of one of the chats she’d had with Mayor Mills, just after she’d helped Arabella secure her job as Librarian. The Mayor had been so happy for her, reaching an arm out to rest firmly on her shoulder. She’d told Arabella that she was fortunate to have a place to belong; there were many others who weren’t as fortunate.

 _This is my place_ , Arabella reminded herself as she wandered near a window. The windows were dirty, but she could still see rather clearly out of them. Once the weather warmed up she would have to see about borrowing a ladder and cleaning the grime from the glass. She thought could probably find time to do that tonight, if she kept up with her daytime duties.

She was jarred from her reverie by the sight of two men walking down the street dressed in fine, fashionable clothes. She recognized the pair as the notorious pawnbroker and his solemn assistant, and she paused to watch them as they walked down the sidewalk across the street. She felt a heat rising into her face and she drew herself away from the window. A moment later curiosity had her at the next window, watching the two men walk farther away; she pulled away when they turned a corner and were gone from her sight. She didn’t know his business, but she was fairly certain he’d never return to the library after having fallen victim to her clumsiness.

Shelving books was an easy routine to slip into, somewhat mindless; people were getting better about stacking the books on the trolley she kept near her desk. Sorting by category or catalogue number was simple, and then she needed only to make her rounds about in and out of the shelves. Her mind began to wander as her hands took over the familiar routine. She thought on the pawnbroker, and in her mind’s hazy recollection, she imagined that he seemed sad, lonely. Why else would he have visited the library when he had a completely capable assistant that he sent everywhere else? And she’d frightened him off with her awkward ways. Some empathetic part of her felt a heavy regret that he hadn’t returned, that same part which also worried that it was her fault. He couldn’t be avoiding a place he never went though, and so he couldn’t be avoiding _her_. The mayor’s words came back to her, the library was her place. Arabella considered the pawnshop was Mr. Gold’s, and their places didn’t have much of anything to do with each other. They had their own lives, and it was high time she set about getting back to hers.

Her resolve to follow the Mayor’s advice didn’t do anything to dispel the sullen mood that occupied her thoughts. The day seemed to drag on and on, and it was with relief that she set about cleaning up after closing time.

^^^^^^

Deals made with him, no matter the world in which they originated, were upheld. Rumpelstiltskin knew this, and was counting on using an unfulfilled deal to get the Savior to back herself into a corner. He’d seen it, knew it was going to happen. He just needed to play his cards right, wait for things to fall into place before he struck. Cinderella was due any day now, and if memory served, she was as desperate as the night they first met. He’d enjoyed playing the villain to her damsel in distress. It was for a worthy cause, though she had no idea of knowing, and probably would never stop to consider who fixed the broken pieces of her life.

Shaking off thoughts of the past and home, Rumpelstiltskin spared a few words for his assistant, to assure him that his boss wasn’t madly brooding or inconveniently distracted. Mr. Dove was with him on his rounds today, he was collecting loan payments today, saving the best for last; the ever desperate Moe French.

Just before he turned a corner away from Main Street, he felt the subtle itch along the back of his neck that alerted him to watchful eyes. He only just kept himself from turning, sparing a curse to the Evil Queen for her twisted humor. He couldn’t very well ask Mr. Dove to look around to see who was staring. It wouldn’t only sound mad, but how was Mr. Dove to know which of the many eyes aimed at them were watchful?

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Streetlights illuminated the dark bedroom of the librarian enough to annoy her as she hovered on the boundary between asleep and awake. Tossing and turning, Arabella tried to get comfortable, but just couldn’t quite manage it and the irritation was getting under her skin like a bad itch. Kicking off the covers, she glared at the ceiling, and then turned her scowl to her nightlight, as though it was dreadfully at fault. She wanted to shriek in frustration, wanted to kick at her mattress until… until something happened. Irritation crawled along her skin and she shoved herself out of the bed. Pacing in the near dark, she slowly drew closer to the window. Giving up on quieting the tumult inside her, she reached one hand out to reach her hand against the window pane and glared at the street below. It took a few minutes for her to see through her frustration to the two women conversing on the streets below her.

Mary Margret stood next to a beat up yellow bug talking to a blonde woman she didn’t recognize. She had to be the new comer Ruby had mentioned. Her hand was a fist pushing against the glass before she realized that she could only ignore the tension building up inside her, she couldn’t rid herself of it. Sighing, she shoved herself away from the sight below and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing as she tugged against snarls. The accidental tug transitioned into an intentional yank, the pain bringing some of the hazy frustration into a small semblance of focus. The term cell fever came to mind; cooped up in one place for too long, a restlessness to get out.

Pushing the rebellious thought away, she walked to her kitchen, thoughtlessly snapping the light on and shielding her eyes from the bright sting. She stubbed her toe on a chair she’d left out as she walked to the stove and cranked the burner to medium-high. Yanking the offending chair around, she sat astride as she glowered at the kettle, waiting for steam to come rushing out. Moving had helped take a little of the edge off of her restlessness, but it was still there, crawling under her skin. Ignoring it wasn’t going to make it go away. For the first time she wished she had alcohol in her cabinet, wishing to replace her irritation with what she’d been lead to believe would be a pleasant buzz.

Alcohol had hurt her father though, had become a crutch. And what would Mayor Mills think, if she was weak enough to turn to the bottle to get to bed? She’d be disappointed to say the least. It took Arabella a few moments to shake off these circling thoughts when she noticed the steam shooting from the spout. Her tea mug was taken from the cupboard and unceremoniously slammed against the counter, causing her to wince as she felt the harsh vibration in her fingers. Her eyes began to sting and she was surprised by the tears she brushed away. _What is wrong with me?_ She reached for her peppermint tea, dropping the small bag in the cup and hastily pouring the steaming water over it in jerky, graceless motions.

On her way back to bed, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Instead of looking closer, she turned away, not wanting to see the mousy, small girl in the mirror. If she could ignore it long enough, she could try to forget about that, at least. The tea took another hour to help soothe her, and when she did sleep, her dreams kept her restless, tossing and turning.

When she awoke, she couldn’t remember the unsettling dreams, though she still felt the burr of irritation in her chest. She ran through her morning routine more quickly than usual, finding herself with time to spare for an early morning clean up, something she’d been neglecting as of late. She’d fallen out of her normal routine, and some small thought crept in telling her it was the new woman’s fault. Nonsense of course, but it took a while to banish the thought.

She pulled on her jeans and a t-shirt and walked down to the library floor, getting started as quickly as she could. Her restlessness gave her speed and energy she didn’t normally spend in the morning cleaning. By the time she finished, there were still forty five minutes to opening, and she’d once again neglected to eat. Bright red caught her eye and she turned to follow Ruby’s movements as she straightened the outside eating area of the diner. Hunger drove her to check her cash drawer to see how much she’d accumulated in overdue charges. They weren’t strictly for library use alone; she saw to repairs and supplies with them out of frugality. A few dollars wouldn’t hurt her cleaning supply back stock. Running upstairs for a jacket, and then down again, she grabbed a few bills and quickly walked out the door.

^^^^^^

It was an early morning collection day for Mr. Gold, and though Rumpelstiltskin had never been much of a morning person he kept to the schedule. With Mr. Dove behind him and a keener hearing than most, he had some warning of the figure approaching him, between which he was almost able to sidestep them. Their shoulders caught and he caught a trace of books, spice and the elusive floral mystery that he’d identified as the Librarian.

“I’m so sorry!” he heard her cry “I—oh Mr. Gold, I didn’t see you there!”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her a deaf girl should keep her eyes open better, but he thought better of it and instead waved off the apology. “No matter, Miss.” He said, his mind searching for a last name, but coming up with none. _Shoddy work, Regina_ he thought. “Though I hope you won’t make it a habit.”

Silence met his quip and he could only assume she’d either blushed and was looking for words, or hadn’t understood what he’d said. “I may stop by your establishment later on. There’s a few books I’ve been meaning to pick up” he added after a moment, taking care to enunciate.

“You’re welcome any time, Mr. Gold.” She said, and this time he heard a waver in her voice, of a jaw shaking in the cold. “I should get going, so I don’t open late. Have a good day Mr. Gold!” she said and he heard her turn and walk away.

Turning to face Mr. Dove, Rumpelstiltskin posed a question. “Do you know her last name, Mr. Dove?”

No immediate answer came, and Rumpelstiltskin nearly gave up, thinking Regina’s work on the curse left much to be desired. “I believe it’s March, sir.” He finally heard. “Arabella March.”

“Interesting.” Rumpelstiltskin turned that around a few times in his mind, a key, though useless, to the identity of the Librarian. Once things were more set in motion, he’d have to devote more time to learning who she was.

^^^^^^

The diner was warm and smelled so delicious Arabella’s mouth started to water. Embarrassed by her run-in with Mr. Gold, this was the icing on the cake of her awkward foray into the day. Instead of looking where she was going, she had been keeping her head down, the sudden cold a shock to her. Stupid, childish, and still he’d brushed it off like it was nothing. He’d even told her he would be stopping by the library. As much as she liked patronage, she dreaded any more time in his company, knowing how it would most likely end up.

She found an empty seat at the bar and waited for someone to come take her order. Ruby came along quickly enough and took her order for “Eggs in the Nest” and hash browns and a glass of chocolate milk. Arabella tried not to swing her legs, pushing down the need she felt to fidget.

When her food came she dug in appreciatively, not remembering the last time food had tasted this good. Whatever they put in to it, probably “love” and grease, it tasted far better than anything she scratched up in her kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a frazzled, tired blond girl, looking hardly out of high school. She spoke a few words to Ruby at the register and then nodded at whatever Ruby said in response. When she walked behind the bar, Arabella saw that she was pregnant, and very far along. She finally recognized the girl as Ashley Boyd, though she couldn’t place her finger on who the father might be. She didn’t keep up with gossip, because gossip was usually discreetly whispered.

“Ashley,” she said when the girl was before her, grabbing things out from under the bar and putting them in a plastic tub. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

Ashley stopped and stared, looking like she was about to cry, before she turned and hurried away. Deciding against any further interaction Arabella hurried to finish her meal and left her money on the table, hoping the change would make a decent tip. When she hurried down the street, she made sure she was completely aware of her surroundings. She cleaned up and changed quickly, trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t wander.

The rest of the day was spent as usual, but with the edge of anticipation, waiting for Mr. Gold. Her normal routine became warped around waiting for him to walk through the door. She found herself circling through the front more often, just in case he came while she was in the back, he wouldn’t be waiting too long. As the afternoon came and wore on, she started to find herself dwelling on him. They’d met only a few times, but he seemed to be such a commanding presence… she figured that was why her mind seemed so fixated.

She sighed with disappointment when she locked up that night. She’d gotten her hopes up, even though he’d only said ‘may’ stop by. “Maybe” he’d come tomorrow, or the next day. She would do what she could to prepare herself, and be extra alert to who was around her, so as not to have another embarrassing incident.

When she climbed up the stairs that night, it was with her usual haste, and two books tucked under her arm.

^^^^^^

He’d meant to get around to visiting the library, but things seemed to get away from him when he was busy in his shop. Perhaps it was being mortal again, or remnants of the curse still clinging to him. Whatever it was, night had fallen and it was past time to lock up. He sent Dove ahead to bring the car around and locked up, heading down the street cautiously. It was dark, and with the curse fractured, accidents and crime could finally happen. The shatter of glass was a whisper in the dark, slipping through the silence more than breaking it. What fool would break into a shop— _his_ shop. There was only one person who’d reached that desperation in Storybrooke. The Princess Ella, now Ashley Boyd. With a growling sigh, he turned and walked back, unsure about what he could expect from the girl, but determined that the nonsense not get out of hand.

He slipped back into his own shop, hardly a minute after she must have and heard the creak of the painting over his wall safe. _Of course_ , he thought. She believed the power to be in the written contract. Shortsighted in their home world and here, but that was hardly important. She was finally playing the game again and _that_ was. “Ashley,” he heard her gasp in fear. Good, fear was his _modus operandi_. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Changing my life,” she said, a small trace of steel founding her words. The little princess had a backbone again, or the traces of one. Those were his last thoughts before he heard a slight hiss and harsh, searing pain invaded his eyes. He yelled, though that was cut a bit short when the burn entered his mouth. Every thought was to get away from the pain, motions frantic, desperate and clumsy in his confused and blind state. Stepping back hastily, he hit a vanity and fell forward, hitting his forehead on a high table. A heavy nothingness replaced the pain as he slipped out of consciousness.

He awoke to less pain in his eyes and more in his head, his face wet and slightly sticky. He turned his head, fighting the sharp ache as he tried to gain his bearings. He was still lying on the floor, but he could feel someone close, and hear breathing not his own. “Who is that?” he demanded, too surly to be worried.

“Me, sir. Mr. Dove,” He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, keeping him still. “What happened sir?”

Clenching his teeth, Rumpelstiltskin bit back his first retort, knowing desperate princesses and baby-trading were not understood, nor cared for, in this world. “An encounter with a desperate mother; Ashley Boyd,” He rubbed his eyes, still feeling them smart a bit, and realized his face had been drenched with milk. “Mr. Dove?”

“It was to help with the burning, sir.” Mr. Dove explained, sliding an arm under his bosses shoulder and easing him up.

“Thank you, Mr. Dove.” Rumpelstiltskin was a little surprised, both at the knowledge and that Mr. Dove knew it. He couldn’t remember that he’d ever taken much interest in Mr. Dove’s cursed past. Leaning heavily on his assistant’s strength, he managed to make his way to the car. He leaned back into the leather, grateful that he was finally going home.

He heard Mr. Dove climb in, the car sinking a few inches as the suspension accommodated his weight. “Shall I take you to the hospital, sir?”

“No need. I’ll be fine in the morning.” The last thing he wanted to do was to appear defenseless in front of the townsfolk. His bed and a restful night called out to him, a siren call he had no intention of putting off. When he heard the hesitating silence, he insisted “Home, please, Mr. Dove.”

“Yes, sir.”

They traveled in silence, one for a lack of words, the other for knowledge of his place. Shambling up the walk way towards the steps, Rumpelstiltskin wished for comfort amidst all the unfamiliar. Sightless, dependant on another and in a land of strange customs that he knew intimately and yet were foreign, he wanted something from their home world. Assuring Mr. Dove that he was well enough to see to himself and to wake him every hour, he put forth the effort to appear busy until the heavy footsteps retreated. He made halting progress towards a trio of storage cabinets that sat not quite flush with the wall of the parlor area. He opened each one as quietly as possible, his long fingers brushing against stacks of plates, champagne flutes, snifters and more assorted dish- and glassware. Top shelf of the second cabinet, in the back he found a thin delicate porcelain teacup with a chip along the rim. He couldn’t see it, but he recalled the simple design and almost wished to see the blue branch, if only for a reminder of the fire of defiance in the eyes of one long dead.

It was blind sentimentality that had him hanging onto it. Tangible proof that once, there had been someone in his life that hadn’t wanted to use him, that had come to him willingly and returned to him willingly. Carefully cradling the cup he made his way slowly to his room, one hand along the walls, the other holding the cup to his chest, just below his rib cage. He held it to him as he made his way to the bathroom, brushing his teeth before soaking a washcloth and walking to the bed. Too tired to dress in his laid out pajamas, he simply stripped his suit off and slid between the sheets clad in his undershirt and boxers. He curled up on his side, holding the cup pressed against the side of his heart as he fell asleep, one thumb brushing against the chip in the edge. He slept deeply, struggling to wake when shaken by his assistant and falling quickly back asleep.

^^^^^^

After a night wrapped in blankets and reading on her stomach until her back ached, Arabella awoke slowly but surely. The feeling of off-ness that had plagued her the last two days was all but forgotten, and though it remained, it was phantom breeze tickling the recesses of her mind occasionally. Rolling from her bed, she planted both feet firmly on the floor and looked around her room. The faded cream walls were bland, the most interesting thing about them the occasional dent or crack. The windowsills were dusty, and the curtains framing them could use some laundering. She wondered how she’d never thought to give the walls a new coat of paint, or put much thought into decorating. She would have to change that, soon. Plans turning in her head she stood up and walked to the shower, needing more balance and coordination than usual. Cranking the cold porcelain knobs to get a hot, invigorating shower, she welcomed the cascade that washed the cobwebs from her mind and sluggishness from her limbs. Feeling more refreshed than she’d been as of late, it was with a bright smile and a book in hand that she opened the library that morning.

^^^^^^

Miss Blanchard’s apartment wasn’t a place Gold had ever needed to frequent. It was one of the few places he didn’t own, though the landlord did owe him money.  It was this debt connection that led him to the whereabouts of the Savior; moving in with her mother, though she didn’t believe it seemed a quaint quirk of fate. After re-introducing himself to Emma Swan he got down to the brass tacks of it. He could easily understand the picture he made, a blind loan shark asking for help, but it was important to play the part for now. “I have a proposition for you Miss Swan,” he offered “I, uh, I need your help. I’m looking for someone.”

With his reputation in mind, she could hardly have been expecting this, and he allowed a moment for her to collect her words, and for the former princess to excuse herself before continuing with his proposal. “I have a photo,” he reached into his breast pocket and offered the glossy scrap to her as he informed her of the situation. “Her name is Ashley Boyd” he said softly as he strode forward, letting his cane lead him to avoid any trips or stumbles “and she’s taken something quite valuable of mine.”

Ever pragmatic and suspicious, Emma didn’t accept. “Why don’t you just go to the police?” she asked.

It was interesting how often people walked into situations with the door wide open to emotional manipulation. “Because she’s a confused young woman,” he answered honestly. “She’s pregnant, alone and scared. I don’t want to ruin this young girl’s life. I just want my property returned.”

“And what is it?” Emma asked, and he knew, being the daughter of Snow White and David, the soft but calculating look that would be on her face. He’d seen it plenty of times on theirs in their numerous dealings.

Turning in place a bit, gesturing to nothing in particular he answered her “Well, one of the advantages to you not being the police is discretion,” he left the remark as half questioning before finishing in a hushed voice. “Let’s just say it’s a precious object and leave it at that.”

She seemed to accept his terms, at least for now. “When did you see her last?” Accept, but not trust judging by her tone.

“Last night” he answered, his voice soft in playing up the role of concerned citizen. “That’s—that’s how I got this” he brushed his bangs to the side to show the cut that still hurt when he forgot to be careful. “It’s so unlike her. She was quite wound up, rambling on and on about changing her life,” and he knew exactly who had put those ideas in her head, had been counting on it when he understood the course fate was trying to take with the Savior and the Curse. The silence from Miss Swan only confirmed what he already knew. “I have no idea what got into her. Miss Swan, please just help me find her.” He managed to edge a note of desperation when he said “My only other choice _is_ the police, and I don’t think anyone wants to see that baby born in jail, now do they?” he could hear the nail being hammered in to the coffin. She wouldn’t turn him down now. She couldn’t let herself.

“No, of course not” she near-interrupted.

“So you’ll help me then?” he smiled slightly, false anticipation on his face.

Silently she turned over his proposal before answering “I will help _her_ ,” and he knew she’d be seeing this through to the end he needed.

“Grand,” was his relieved response. He was about to make his way to the door when it creaked open and he heard the voice of Henry Mills, the Savior’s son.

“Hey Emma I was thinking we—” he must have realized they weren’t alone and stopped short once he saw Mr. Gold.

Both Mr. Gold and Rumpelstiltskin liked Henry. He was an intelligent boy, with a mind ready for puzzles, and an adventuresome streak a mile wide. He was a descendant of heroes, at least on Emma’s side. He didn’t know the father, but he didn’t have to. Henry made a name for himself, his own character, though certainly not flawless, was admirable for a ten year old. “Hey, Henry. How are you?”

Hesitant and nervous, Henry only said “Okay,” emphasizing the two syllables. It was time enough to be leaving, seeing to other business and giving the Savior and the princeling time together.

“Good,” he commented with a jovial tone. He started walking out, hearing Henry step to the side when his cane came close “Give my regards to your mother.” Just before walking through the door he turned back. “And… um, Good luck, Miss Swan”

He made sure to shut the door behind him and probably could have helped over hearing the exchange in his absence, but what would be the point? Henry was still piecing things together and couldn’t figure out who he was. It would keep the playing field tilted in his favor, at least until things became a little more turbulent in the quiet town.

^^^^^^

Although she still carried the little anxiety that clung to her, little else invaded the lazy calm of Arabella’s day at the library. A few students came and went with papers and homework sheets. Some of the younger adult crowd roamed the shelves, seeking an adventure, or an answer. On her restocking rounds she found herself along the shelf carrying information on child rearing. She paused, books still in arm as she looked at the titles and wondered if Ashley had come in here looking for help. It had to be terrifying, having a whole other life growing inside of you. Ashley still lived with her step mother, but from what Arabella could remember hazily, she’d never mentioned home happily.

A baby should know love and acceptance from the first days. Only imagining what kind of life Ashley would be giving the child in a home she wasn’t happy herself in gave Arabella cause for consideration. A poor, reclusive librarian, she had little to offer but support and maybe night time babysitting. Glancing at the ceiling, she reconsidered. The storage rooms and her apartment weren’t the only rooms upstairs. She couldn’t recall even looking through the others, but even if all she could offer Ashley was a place in her apartment until she got back on her feet, it had to be better than what she was leaving behind. She had a room for storage on the other side of her living room, perhaps Ashley would want it.

A plan firmly in mind, Arabella tried to keep from clockwatching. So excited to reach out to Ashley, she didn’t notice the annoying niggling sensation that had been plaguing her for days finally faded away.

^^^^^^

It was for days like today that Rumpelstiltskin had wanted an assistant like Mr. Dove, though before the fracture of the curse, there hadn’t been any days like today. The curse had kept things quiet, stagnant and infinite. Mr. Dove was dutiful, loyal, unquestioning and had a knack for knowing when to intimidate with his presence and when to leave his boss to his own devices.  It was with unquestioning haste that he helped Mr. Gold finish his rounds before settling into the shop to wait for contact from Emma. Once they received the call, Mr. Dove drove down to the hospital and sat down a ways away, giving Mr. Gold a chance to handle Emma’s confrontation on his own.

Rumpelstiltskin stood before the coffee machine, more for an excuse to move than anything else. He hated sitting still and waiting, or standing and waiting. Motion was easier to bear, even if it meant drinking the sludge that passed for coffee in this hospital. He knew Emma would be unhappy with him, had been expecting it. She thought she’d been manipulated, which was true enough, but not in the way she thought. He heard her clipped gait approach as his coffee finished pouring. “Well, well. Must be my lucky day,” there was no triumph or pleasure in his voice, just simple statement of fact. “Care for a cup, Miss Swan?”

She spared no pleasantries for him, immediately jumping in with exactly what dissatisfied her. “A baby? That’s your merchandise?” Her voice was low and cold with what could be anger, if she was less reserved. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she seemed truly interested in knowing why he hadn’t, not simply trying to find a reason to start arguing.

Emma was no pawn to be played, she was a knight. You could make her move, but her moves were her own, and only scarcely predictable. “Well, because at the time, you didn’t need to know.”

“Really?” the way she dragged out the last syllable shouted volumes of mistrust. “Or you thought I wouldn’t take the job?”

He started walking, not away, but to keep in motion. “On the contrary,” he corrected “I thought it would be more effective if you found out yourself.” Hearing her skeptical silence, he continued. “After seeing Ashley’s hard life, I thought it would make sense… to you. I mean, if anyone could understand the reasons behind giving up a baby, I assumed it would be you.”

With steel in her voice, Emma whispered, just loud enough for him to hear “You’re not getting that kid.”

His cold countered her steel when he responded, loud enough to be heard over the bustle going on around them. “Actually, we have an agreement,” of which she had no idea the strength. Her prince gone from her in this world and the last, until the broken deal was fixed, there was no happy ending in this for Cinderella. “And my agreements are always honored. If not, I’m going to have to involve the police, and that baby is going to end up in the system” He knew how live could be in a foster home, not only from the sordid article Sydney Glass wrote. His own memories supplied the stories. The Savior survived it though, which spoke volumes of her. “You didn’t enjoy your time in the system, did you Emma?” He stopped moving to face her, squaring off.

“That’s not going to happen,” her assurance wavered in her words, and Rumpelstiltskin had to reign in his anticipation at that, holding on to his act as Mr. Gold.

Smiling, he tried to seem almost friendly. “I like your confidence. Charming,” he said, cold gone for the moment and the darker side tittering at the use of her father’s nickname. “But all I have to do is press charges.” He pushed his advantage further. “She did, after all, break into my shop.”

“Let me guess,” she said, understanding exasperation coloring her tone. “To steal a contract.”

Nonchalantly he shrugged “Who knows what she was after?”

“You know no jury in the world would put a woman in jail whose only reason for breaking and entering was to keep her child,” the invitation to fight was in every syllable. Miss Swan wasn’t going to back down, wasn’t going to give up like he was sure someone had given up on her. Her confidence was back when she laid the challenge. “I’m willing to roll the dice that contract doesn’t stand up. Are you?” Storybrooke guaranteed the dice would be loaded, in this instance, in his favor. Sure, the jury would sympathize with the poor mother, but no one wanted to cross Mr. Gold. The twelve unfortunates would be put between conscience and comfort, the kind of inner conflicts the curse shied away from. “Not to mention what might come out about you in the process. Somehow I suspect there is more to you than a simple pawnbroker,” she waited, letting the challenge lie for a moment. “You really want to start that fight?”

If she only knew, if she only would listen to her son and believe, she may understand just who she was up against. A man of a hundred faces, a thousand skills, but few motivations, the Dark One hid behind the face of a pawnbroker, but the pawnbroker himself? Mr. Gold, though hated, knew his business well and had no dirty dealings as of yet. That was sure to change as folks in town became more desperate. But she didn’t know that, she still believed the law was on her side and justice could prevail. He had to admire that, with as much as she’d seen, and been through and felt, that she still wanted what was good. “I like you Miss Swan. You’re not afraid of me, and that’s either cocky or presumptuous,” he continued quickly, getting to his point “Either way, I’d rather have you on my side.”

A little too quickly she asked “So she can keep the baby?”

“Not just yet,” he interrupted before she could continue. “There’s still the matter of my agreement with Miss Boyd,” he turned to walk towards the lobby doors, drawing out the fight.

“Tear it up,” she retorted. As if it was that simple, as if it could _be_ that simple. Regular, mundane mortals had interesting ideas about the longevity of things.

He tried to keep his whisper from being a hiss. He shrugged again, but his tone belied his casual posture. “That’s not what I do. You see,” he stated like a teacher at a lecture hall “Contracts, deals well—they’re the very foundation of all civilized existence.” Mr. Gold was a civil man, but the Dark One, the feared Rumpelstiltskin only had moments of civility between long stints of plotting and manipulation. Civility was just to get people to go along with what you were doing. “So I put it to you now. If you want Ashley to have that baby, are you willing to make a deal with me now?” every focus was on her response, aching, waiting, chomping at the bits because this moment was what he’d struck that deal with the princess for. He had no need of a baby for himself, was hardly home enough to be able to care properly for one.

“What do you want?” she was resolved, though maybe she didn’t know it yet, but she was already committed to ensuring the freedom of the princess and her baby. 

“Oh, I don’t know just yet” and he didn’t know exactly, but he had an inkling “You’ll owe me a favor” he gestured loosely, like the idea had just come to him. A placeholder for the deal he’d struck with Cinderella, paid with an I.O.U. Emma was silent while she contemplated, and Rumpelstiltskin heard the real world, the hospital around their exchange return to life. He’d hardly noticed anything going on around them in his determination that this went as needed. It came down to her answer.

“Deal,” she agreed and as her hand closed around his, exhilaration flooded him. He’d done it, and it was one more thing fallen into place for him. It wasn’t much, but it was a very appealing start. She turned to go, to soothe the new mother that the monster wasn’t going to get her baby.

Rumpelstiltskin waited a moment, taking a sip of the black coffee in his hand before Mr. Dove approached him. “Sir? The rooms have been cleaned. Shall I set everything up?”

For the baby, because Mr. Gold, who had no need of a child in his house, had planned on keeping the child there for a time. Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “No, Mr. Dove. Miss Swan as interceded on Miss Boyd’s behalf.”

“Sir?”

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “Miss Swan decided to trade a favor for Miss Boyd’s baby.” He started walking off, not needing to maneuver around the nurses and doctors who only too gladly got out of his way. While the exhilaration remained, the knife edge of the familiar loneliness from years in the dark castle rubbed against it. He heard Mr. Dove’s foot falls behind him and was glad he had at least some company in the old, pink Queen Anne’s.

^^^^^^

Ruby wouldn’t tell Arabella where Ashley had gone to until they’d gotten news of the accident. Even then, she was still hesitant, and though Arabella tried not to be, she was still a little hurt. She just wanted to help. She spoke to Mrs. Lucas about Ashley’s arrangement, but had a hard time following the conversation because Mrs. Lucas kept getting distracted, and she didn’t always enunciate. Arabella made sure her sentiments were understood before leaving. It was mid afternoon, too early to close up the library, but she did anyway, politely ushering people out. A girl needed help, real help, and this was no time for games and coyness. Locking the door behind her, Arabella buttoned up her coat and walked resolutely to the library. She hadn’t been in a while, but it stood there, a formidable and sterile monument to health in Storybrooke.

When she walked inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the constant, buzzing motions going on everywhere. Tracking down a nurse who didn’t look too busy took a little time, but she finally managed to and found the small glass room Ashley was in. She wasn’t alone, and she held a baby in her arms. Not wanting to interrupt, Arabella walked away. She could come back tomorrow, before the hospital discharged the new mother.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Convincing Ashley didn’t take much effort, only a little extra time and patience when Arabella had to ask Ashley to repeat something. One of the selling points of living with Arabella was that a deaf roommate wouldn’t care much about a baby crying at any hour of the night or day. That she offered to go for Ashley’s few belongings with Sean was a relief, she could see. He moved their things in quickly with little help from Arabella, leaving for work as soon as he was done, the spare apartment key finding its new home on his keychain. She’d been hesitant to officially hand the couple the key—it was a library spare after all—but after seeing Ashley’s resolution to make the best of this new life she’d started out on, she believed she could trust the two to take care of her home. A part of her, small and quiet, was looking forward happily to the prospect of new roommates. She had no siblings, and had never had roommates.

It would be a stay-at-home sort of adventure, just the kind she felt cut out for. It would be fun to watch a baby grow and learn, and though Ashley wasn’t a dear friend, Arabella hoped that some kind of friendship could come of the living arrangements. It might be nice to have a guy around as well. She couldn’t recall any guys she’d known well growing up. She tended to stick to home and her books when she was a teen and had never really grown out of that. Settling down behind her desk, she shuffled through the motions of checking in the recent returns and let her thoughts drift towards her new living arrangements.

Her musings about her new living arrangements were shocked out of mind by a shadow falling over her desk. She looked up into the tired eyes of her father and she stood up quickly, eager to hug him. As she felt his arms wrap around her, she felt a prickle of unease run down her neck. When he pulled away, she saw the tired look in his eyes was more desperation than fatigue. “Is everything fine, dad?”

Shrugging, he lapsed into a long explanation she was only able to get the general idea of; he was low on funds from the shop, and he didn’t know if he could make the next rent payment, was there any way she could loan him some money? “Of course, dad! We’re family, and family looks out for each other.”

The relief was palpable in his gaze and he nodded and smiled with mostly his teeth before attempting some idle chatter and making his excuses to leave. Moe wasn’t the best comfort under stress. Arabella thought his brain was always running in at least four different directions, he was always jumping from one thing to another. As she watched her father leave, she sighed, wishing she could be more help to him.

Before she could lose herself to wishful daydreams, she was shocked to feel tremors beneath her feet. Heart racing more from the start than actual fear; she tucked herself under her desk, the best protection at hand from any potential danger. She looked around, panicked, at the few patrons visiting and saw them looking around in fright as well, some stock still and clinging to one another, others trying to decide where to run to first. As soon as the feeling subsided she uncurled herself and made her way to the Geography shelves, trying to catch her breath as she skimmed the spines with her eyes and fingertips until she found one likely to contain a map of tectonic plates. The map showed Maine to be too far from any kind of tectonic activity to merit the tremor they’d just had. Something at the back of her mind tried to explain away the phenomenon, but she couldn’t quite accept it. Taking a few other books off the shelf, she made her way back to her desk, a little shocked to see that no one was around.

She felt inclined to follow them outside; sure they were making their way to the town hall, or searching out the source of the tremors. But old habits die hard, and so she sat and read about seismic activities and contemplated potential safety measures she might need to take if this ended up being a reoccurring event in town.  

^^^^^^

As the door closed behind Mr. Dove, Rumpelstiltskin grinned to himself. Things were shifting around in the unchangeable town. The earlier tremors were the barriers of the curse shaking against the essence of change brought about by the Savior. It was a simple matter of time before the whole thing came crashing around the stately, bloodied feet of Regina. The whole affair was a grim one, but it was the long game he’d always been playing; he just needed to wait a little bit longer.

Taking his ledger from the cabinet he ran his fingers across the accounts, reminding himself of debts about to come due. For the most part the people of Storybrooke were able to let fear spur them to innovation, but there was one man who couldn’t grasp the understanding that everything comes with a price, and that price must be paid. Moe French was only barely scraping by, minimum payments while interest grew. With a grin of sadistic satisfaction Rumpelstiltskin closed his ledger. He could wait, he’d practically perfected the art.

^^^^^^

Dinner that night above the library was a cluttered affair, and Arabella saw the downside of living with hearing roommates. They weren’t used to emphasizing their communication, so she missed out on a lot, but they smiled and ate most of the food, so she knew it wasn’t a complete loss. Little Alexandria was asleep in their bed, and Sean offered to do dishes, leaving Ashley and Arabella to talk.

Ashley knew more about the earthquakes, having listened in to gossip at the diner. She told Arabella the tremors were caused by the collapsing tunnels from the abandoned mines, and later from some planned explosions to try to open a cave-in. “That seems dangerous” Arabella said, and Ashley nodded in response, eyes wide. The girls spoke a little longer, but Ashley’s eyes started to droop, and so Sean swept her off to their room, leaving Arabella to go to hers.

This night, as she waited for sleep to take her away, her thoughts drifted to boyfriends, lovers, and the oddity that was the attempt of happily ever after.

 


	10. Chapter 10

In his extensive life, Rumpelstiltskin divided his progression into stages around events. Son of a coward, husband, cowardly cripple and the years high on power as the Dark One. None of these men had ever been the type to be invited to parties, though as the Dark One he had crashed a few. Mr. Gold wasn’t the party attending type either, but when he received the hurried invitation from Mrs. Kathryn Nolan he agreed whole heartedly. As whole heartedly as miser can, at any rate. The Golden Princess had never had need of him in either world, but he had kept an eye on the situation concerning her gilded lover. Her desperation was of a different kind than what normally beckoned him, and so he had never tried to sway her with a deal. He had also been counting on the chivalrous imposter to step in, but that was neither here nor there.

He’d mastered the art of mingle-and-reveal at royal get-togethers and the occasional peasant celebration, as well as more private affairs. As Mr. Gold he could hardly creep around and subvertly mingle, nor could he parade around with his mottled grin and flamboyant gestures.  Instead he kept a loose hand on his cane, another hand cradling a plastic cup to avoid potential awkward blind-unfriendly handshakes. He heard Henry walking around, his voice high with excitement. Dr. Hopper’s soft words called his attention, and he slipped out of his darker thoughts and back into the present conversation.

It was odd, the ability to remember where he was from, and to remember the true identities of those around him. It felt as though he was stuck between two conversations, but he could only contribute to one. He was nearly drowning in his memories, both his true and falsified memories. It had been a long day, and he was barely able to keep abreast in the noisome party, but he needed to put in an appearance, and there was only so much Dove could find out. He couldn’t stay cooped up in his shop, as appealing as that sounded. He had to be on his guard now. It didn’t hurt that Kathryn Nolan was a rather wonderful hostess, nor that the Savior herself made an appearance.

^^^^^^

If it hadn’t been for the note left on the coffee table, Arabella wouldn’t have known that Ashley and Sean had decided to take Alexandria to a party. On some level it hurt more than a little, that she hadn’t been invited by any one. A thought was given to perhaps trying to see if Regina was home, but she immediately dismissed the though, not liking the idea of dropping by unannounced. Friends didn’t do that to each other. Instead Arabella decided to go grocery shopping a night early. The stillness of her apartment seemed alien after the last few days of being peopled, and she felt a draw to be out of doors.

After a brief hunt through her kitchen turned up the lack of some necessities so, writing a quick note and a quicker list, she set out into the night.  

Mr. Clarke’s pharmacy was nearly deserted, and she fought of a pang of loneliness. It was stupid, to hope for a chance encounter with someone. That wasn’t why she’d gone out. She had things she needed to get, and then she could return home. To the Library. Where she belonged.

She spend the next few days sticking to her safe place, not even looking out of the windows as the season began to change. She told herself she’d seen it all before.

^^^^^^

The amnesiac Prince was sent the wrong way by Regina. It was like her, that as her precious curse crumbled around her she held on to any and all shreds of it that she could. He’d done his best to send him on his way, but it was the lure of his shop—or him—that kept the prince just long enough to find his memories. Or, rather, Regina’s. He remembered that he was a husband to a remarkable woman. It just happened to be the wrong one. Rumpelstiltskin spared a thought of pity for the former Princess. But pity wouldn’t do any good to anyone. Rumpelstiltskin needed to plan, and wait.


	11. Chapter 11

Meeting the Sheriff wandering helplessly through the woods was unexpected, but not unwelcome. As best he could decipher from the hesitant confusion, something in the lost soul was remembering his true past, and he could only assume that Miss Swan was at the root of it, in some way or another. He hadn’t accounted for such a fractal breaking of the Curse, but any progress was better than the last 28 years by any stretch.

It then came as a shock when Mr. Dove told him about the funeral. No one had thought to invite him, and he’d had no dealings in this world—or the last—with the former Huntsman and so merited no invitation. He found himself by the gravesite hours after everyone left. Mr. Dove hadn’t asked why he’d wanted to pay his respects to someone he, by all rights, didn’t truly know. But his was a casualty to be mourned, an unwilling and unaware pawn to a battle that began brewing long, long ago.

He was surprised to hear someone else walking through the cemetery grass towards him, and he half turned, wanting them to know he was more than aware of their presence; he was ready for it. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Gold”

The Librarian? This was convenient.

^^^^^^

Arabella saw someone standing in the cemetery, but had hoped they wouldn’t be near Graham’s grave. Some time alone for reflection and mourning would have been nice. As she walked closer she realized who it was, before dismay at unforeseen company pushed the surprise out of mind. She’d wanted to be alone, because she hadn’t dealt with the death of someone in years, and she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten through it before. Instead of dwelling, she summoned up courage to greet the blind pawnbroker. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Gold.”

She waited to see if he would respond to her, but even when she came to a stop he made no move to speak or leave, or do anything. He just stood there. His stillness got the better of her. “Did you know him—Graham—well?”

His lips went tight, and Arabella felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Mr. Gold slowly shook his head, some strands of hair falling into his face before he said “No.”

“I did,” Arabella volunteered. Her mouth seemed insistent on running off without her consent, and she grit her teeth together to prevent any more words escaping. She looked at the ground, at the covered hole where a good man lay. Resting, was the word she’d read for it. The desire to ask her companion his thoughts on the idea of eternal rest hit her hard, but she resisted. The last thing he needed was her pestering him. She turned to look, curious, and saw that he was almost looking at her in return. But he couldn’t really be looking. He was blind. The feeling of awareness persisted, until she saw him start to speak again, asking if she was a close friend of Graham’s.

“Not terribly close, but he and I did talk a lot about the books he borrowed. He liked true crime novels, and detective fiction.” Arabella felt tears stinging at her eyes, and she could recognize the selfishness behind them. She would miss being able to talk to and see Graham, his familiar visits a comfort and a highlight to her somewhat monotonous life. She sniffed, harsh and unladylike, but Arabella couldn’t find it in her to care much for appearances. No one but Mr. Gold was around, and he didn’t care for any one.

^^^^^^

Mr. Gold left the gravesite shortly after the librarian’s admission. He’d been almost hoping she would say something that would give her away, let him know who she was to the Mayor. He’d half forgotten the Mayor’s warning, and his subsequent interest in the young lady. She wouldn’t know anything of her past self, not even a possible hint. Any artifacts, any scars, any possible thing was explained away with the lies of the Curse. Who could she be, this woman who spoke when mourning silence was expected, who stayed shut up in the library, but thought the Sheriff a friend?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very long time since I worked on this. I got bogged down with school and lost inspiration. Be patient as I work to get that back, or (even better) feel free to prompt or ask questions or give ideas! I have an ending in mind, but it's the here-to-there I always struggle with.


End file.
